i.

             Time stops
             like I’m always hoping it will
             and in the morning I feel
             adrift in my blue bed

whatever should have been
anchoring me
rusted away

             and I am a gradually deflating balloon
headed for the trash island.

             ii.

             In the clear bright calm
             with the breeze of the fan
             stirring; Sisyphus
             as though churning the stagnant air
             represents any
             actual change
             any actual relief
             I know when I wake up
             adrift like that

             I will wish I hadn’t

I will drag my sack of bones across
the floor with my heavy lids and my
hair
and the stale bright air
and stare down the day
as though it matters