Sunday, May 3, 2009


I wrote this on February 21, 2008.

I sat in a trashcan lid,
skid through a snowless field.
The rain poured all around me
and the slush slowed me down.

My face bled into the branches.
The pine oil stung
the needles stung
and the thorns stung
and the ice stung.

And I didn't see the rock--
I didn't see the rock until
I was bleeding into the lake,
bleeding into myself.

The lid splintered and the lake--
the lake had some nerve
freezing my nerves that way.
My heart and thoughts? Stopped.