The heart, the heart.
God the past few days have been awful.
My timidity has turned habitual,
sunk into myself like a pillow,
walking nowhere, waking nowhere.
“It’s the journey that counts,”
unless said route be darkening constantly,
which ‘tis. Meanwhile life
struts on: couples talking, cars driving.
I am nowhere except here, although here
Is baneful, painful. A wound beneath
The tooth. An extricated, alienated feel.
The shock of nothing done, nothing put down.
Geese of my own anxiety, flailing.