Notes on my Excavation

In the morning:
crushed by the self-disgust
your touch and frightened look
bequeathed to me (that now
I freshly trigger every day,
like a radioactive spray).

In the afternoon:
this rottenness scooped out
and replaced by the surge
of any powerful feeling
that can fill the space
and conceal the fact
that who I am, died,
and was excavated, long ago,
even as I tried to root and grow.

In the evening:
such etiolated words as those above,
(desperately put down – and at the last moment),
blacken and fall back upon themselves,
as I swoon into the darkness of the year
and into arms that are not really there.

~ by bod1952 on November 10, 2008.