Down with the sickness.

Horrible things happen when it

gets out ahead of you. When it passes

twenty-three. When I pass three days

in the sheets.

I’ve missed something.

It’s gotten out ahead of me.

It rains all down on my head now,

fat drops of whitewater like the falls.

It’s upsetting in its inherency,

in its status as an inherited quality,

impressionably disjointed, julienned like the song,

harbor truth lives in me.

Oh, just another way to be wrong.

Delinquent in my responsibilities. Shame

on me for my vomiting.

Added pain, an extra kick to the bruise,

my work ethic wounds showing through my

paper-pale skin, leaking blueveined color

in proportion to my distress.

It’s her, to be sure, in all her primacy

and wit. But it was him, and it’s in the buildings,

the schools, the town, the snow plows. Everyone

and everything.

I came in and they told me to go home.

This small stained part of me, tearing up

at their incredulity. Confusing, confusing.



the place that contains the list of the containers of words