the first line of the poem is the hardest to
draw out yourself

but as soon as words unravel onto parchment
or a computer screen

it’s so easy to peer into that half-swabbed glass
and narrate

i’m lying somewhere between the breakfast
table and the bed

on the floor of this shitty hotel room in this
pretty (shitty) town,

this will be my third night without sleeping (third)
night no dreaming

sometimes there are shadows in the corners of
my vision and

occasionally something introduces itself to the
light of the lamp

i’m eating apple slices out of a plastic cup that
somehow decomposes

praying on carpet-rubbed-raw knees, face wet
with tears/spit/tears

someone sighs, “oh, Lord,” in submission and it is
not me…

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