The act of living


dangled lamp light
make circular clouds
of warm haze.

the ceiling is a pockmarked
rectangle.

my eyes,
turned a threatening
shade of green with the new
year, are now
squinted and
only lashes
are left to cover.

these hands have
always been useless.
-

the early morning makes my
frame bitter

and my heart a swollen
failure.
to empty out,

I do not know how.