Worse even than your maddening song, your silence.

The tulips are too red...they hurt me.

I wanted change and excitement and to shoot off in all directions myself, like the colored arrows from a Fourth of July rocket.

But writing poems and letters doesn't seem to do much good.

I buried my head under the darkness of the pillow and pretended it was night. I couldn't see the point of getting up. I had nothing to look forward to.

Although, I admit, I desire, Occasionally, some backtalk From the mute sky, I can't honestly complain: A certain minor light may still Lean incandescent Out of kitchen table or chair As if a celestial burning took Possession of the most obtuse objects now and then --

I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.