lost in the shapeless unease
of a year without sleeping
in laundry baskets.
I almost died last night,
but I cut it short
because that decision deserves Montreal
or Manhattan.
It’s only 10pm,
but I am gross
and tired,
wanting to be better
It’s raining on 86 and Lex only,
and it's raining on Rue Sherbrooke,
and I eat the street without an umbrella
because I don't believe in umbrellas.
One day always
finds a way
to resolve
from skin to sky.
And the reasons why,
oh my, how they run
away like rabbits
from a fox.
You can slice me right
eight ways to Monday,
but you can eat my heart,
because it’s mine, all mine.