lifts, stretches, seeps into my eyes.
It expects me not to complain,
but I say, Not today. Please, not today.
But it doesn’t go away.
Now my head feels like a dead imagination;thoughtless as a cloud, drowned worms in a puddle.
Every word I’ve ever written doesn’t like me.
I place my head in my handsand start to worry:
She could walk in, at any second,and see me as I really am—
a heap of gray; a river of colors
draining down the sewer.
(From the book Kairos)