wine that tastes like vinegar
at two in the morning;
because i am not where i'd hoped i'd be--
though i couldn't tell you where or what--
not for the life of me.
without words and thoughtfully-constructed
proses-- and poetries-- to study:
there is a lack of certainty.
in my writing.
in my speech.
the conviction's been evicted,
the mind and stomach lurch.
through all this
persists
the brain's whirr
whirr
whirr
whirr...
(the kiss of cold steel
forged by tiny foreign hands
does nothing to assuage the ache, the lacking.
and so,
i've no lover either.)
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