I am, I am, I am...

I sit and wait at 3am by the blinds

which sporadically hang the morning shift of folks

travelling to work

along roads that are closed, work that still goes on

and the pedestrians, like myself, in a few hours who

will scramble for sidewalks in the sunrise -

- or it is not sunrise at all.

ii

Something in the rain breathes the condensation on my window

in great bellows so that I know the road to work

may be fraught with water

- and I've forgotten my coat at the office

- and its all the Nabokov I've read that's making me sad but

I still make a sandwich and set off amongst

the rave and rage of the morning

in the sunrise that reminds me of a Camus text -

though I can't quote it.

iii

I have emptiness plaguing my soul though I cannot articulate how

and my close ones are disappointed in me for reasons I know

and though there's an ache in my head and a hole in my heart,

I feel The Bell Jar sinking through my skin, bubbling like a Faulkner quote and it makes my brain burn-

there's nothing I can do.

I am done through and through.

My blood is spat into the sink,

my life has no sunshine,

it's all over -

for another few years.

iv

I am a Joni Mitchell song about the steel where I stole myself and

sought myself, saying to myself it wasn't me -

axiom don't fail me now.

But it doesn't work

I'm a piece of work wrought over by a Bob Dylan lyric in the snowfall

though I'm no songwriter's muse, I am a fuse,

waiting to go off

- watch me glow.

For I am fire that's burned out but opulent.

Opulent against all odds.