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
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.