Wednesday, April 23, 2014

Written on a plane on the inside jacket of a paperback on the way home

no words

no images

nothing
 works well enough
there's not even
 much comfort
 in the familiar
cold comfort
 when there is

heaviness

ache

 sleep is
  no escape
when what little sleep
   actually comes

better to just
 keep moving
  slowly,
  achingly
trudging on

what else is there to do?
what else is there?
what else?
what?

1 comment:

Ted Mallory said...

in hind sight (with the objectivity of about 2 weeks) this seems like a pretty poor poem. But that's what happens when you're hurting. Bad poetry. And isn't that the point of poetry? Catharsis? The best thing I can say about this poem is that it's raw.