suddenly

you look at the ground, and
drown in

(except you're really thinking about poetry, aren't you-- looking from the outside in, revelling in the way you cannot see the coffin, words pouring like old coffee from your pen. your hand twitches, but you make a motion to lift your Kleenex to deadened eyes again, every second too poetic, too tragic. bask in it. you're a fool, a poet, but then what poet isn't a fool trading food for ink, crawling on the ground to post graffiti on it-- no wonder writers get jackshit when the money is inconsequential, and all that matters are the)

words
unspoken, no matter how hard you stu-
tter, like an old car, trying to jump start and 
falling
into 
graceless darkness
(it served you well before).

overheard: 
none of this makes sense.