Three days, maybe, after I thought of crushing them with a whisky bottle,
Placing the crumbs between sheets of printer paper,
Crushing them to powder and snorting them with an unglamorous half-an-envelope or rent receipt;
Three days pin-eyed and fascinated and angered by everything,
Sleepless, swimming on the floor and laughing at cheating time;
But I ended up sitting, and my mind went mute,
The world went mute,
Like deafness never louder.
Never so quiet, never before,
Never cradled in such loneliness.
And I could speak to a thing inside me that
I’d smothered and drowned and poisoned and forgot.
I only had the question Why.
But I got an answer, so maybe it was the best that could be hoped for.
I saw a pigeon on my ledge,
And knew what it really was.
I tasted the corruption in
The dying of a delicious fresh grape.
I got one day, one crisp moment.