It Wears Me Out #60
January 23, 2001

I'm tired of killing my plants,
passive aggressive complacency,
eating stale scones and washing
them down with coffee that burns
my tongue
The batteries that constantly
fall out of the back of my remote.
The pig's ear my dog hides
at the deep end of my sheets,
that scratches the bottom of my feet
when I can't look at the day
no longer.

with dreams of lack, want
and fear
And no time left

to read all those words,
that widens my eyes,
and window shop for husbands,
and cigarette cases,
and music, so rare I
haven't imagined it yet,
Never enough time left
for sex and sex...
And love lucky if found
in the back pocket of
an old winter coat.
with some change
It wears me out
These short dark blue days of winter
of drapes pulled tight
blank eyes of paper
cold fingertips and toes
and memories of 3:00 am
epiphanies the shape of
smoke rising from my chest
into a black outer space
that begins where soft
contour rounds itself
unto itself

the places you have
never touched
love
unattainable, like
skin you will never see
that I was never born with.