I hear birds outside. It’s four a.m.
Let’s finish the poem when I wake
I awake feeling slashed. Four hours
later it’s that awful hour.
I am cut to ribbons emotionally
though I haven’t been conscious
till just now. How does this work?
It’s getting hard to think of you
without the accompanying word
“jerk.” Take that as you will; both
assumptions are probably correct.
And it has all fallen apart again.