Untitled, from the 'PTSD notebooks'

Silence charges, exchanges. Many hands lead away

From sealed-off windows of a poignant dawn

In words other than substance; else you had

To have having-it-all to stand it better than this




Fast toes tonguing in the detergent aisle

Moon, she's strung-out so long it roots detectables

Rakes the fearful cold into marriage with embers

Stale therapy in ear shot rush to make it (better than this)




Thy shifters were all untrue. Winch-like trees scream

Some witchy needle-pinch out to get you, up too late

In the wasted a.m., or else hands wither in the manic rinse

Small birds, scaled back, low scream of unwashable ice

Nothing to do with weathering the apparent burst

But strapped short of the whelm held back better than this