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.





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