Self-portrait

 

 

I can barely look at the word forty-five

 

It has nothing to do with me.

 

It’s relentless progress I’ve

dropped out of.

 

It’s February, I’m three months closer to

forty-six.

I spend my days counting time – is it already

fifteen minutes later? Has it been six weeks since?

 

In a dull suspense –

feeling somehow cheated but knowing

everything’s in perfect order.

 

All day I spend sitting in bed, for  it’s winter

and there it’s warmer

in semi-hibernation like practicing

for the tomb.

 

 

 

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