another pink flower day, late afternoon sun slat into
the blinds, weekend of surreality, can’t get back my state
of grace — another kind of bride, another
kind of waiting. the supplements and gelatin cost too
much, he has a headache and doesn’t want
it, I need a kidney ultrasound before things
can be knit together. stagnant eternal present until —
all at once — it is
not, rushed inward, taking stock of surreality doing
the normal things and hoping normalness
bleeds out again, here’s to strangers drinking me up
and wet-wet thrum of dull day.
poem: headcold
the last pavilion 