Imagine your own catalog of pleasures,
Tearing them away page by sodden page
Like petals, all she loves me not, darkest
Before dawn, finally sleepless and knotted
Like a bed sheet escape ladder from your
Window in the asylum, dead while alive.
No escape at all, no light or sound except
The steady drip of pain in the heart, head
And extremities, now that everything is
Pushed so close to the edge that falling
Is the waking dream that substitutes for
Life, everything drifting away on the wind.
The Last Good Thing
