You turn purple
with fear and loneliness;
go up the ladder,
have secret, squalling throes
and heave back to land
convinced
It would be an honor
to die alone
Then your diaphragm
aches as the worn skin of a drum
and it can make the
humiliation
into the carpels and stamens
of a perfect flower—life can
pour in then,
enticement to live
or to know that as bad as
it will ever get,
after the passing of
this shrieking vision
and visitation, you
have been born again.
