then i was not made to make life and the emergency room was humming
timesick with the lurches and pauses of existing,
there’s a bed and a gown and some sounds made of others in distress.
it’s a matter of exploding or collapsing in one oneself, so
i’m nodding and maybe smiling, but mostly dismantling the future.
there are soft spaces in hearts made of silence and better outcomes.
the garden would rather rot than grow,
but so would i.
time and a bottle and a hand holding a vice as a cure -
the lungs gasp, the body won’t thank you, but
morning will be there, no invitation needed.