Glass world squeaky, still

streaks of softened light.

Eye gunk, like pebbles, cutting

hot with backache, barefoot,

parched. Now

drinking.

With the bleach of morning sun,

I am moved to

wipe with Windex.

Morning colours are fuzzy,

wooly pixels,

cotton white

blanket, dried with yesterday’s binges:

Old coffee, 

eyeliner

or chocolate,               left unwashed.

Cavernous back,

slouching,

squinting.

Shaking.

Beige crumbs in

beige corduroy

stink

of crusty hangover.

Hands start dusting again.

Afternoon, on the couch again.

Swept to the edges like broken glass at a party.

Lungs,

packed vacuum sucking air, the gray mass of the room,

cushions, walls

panting. Too soft,

too heavy to shatter now.

Ball up to sleep

        like a

     mothball.

Last night, corner jam.

Toe stub. Wailing

anger avalanche speed, crumbling

world, then scrunched face, wet

in shadow trees from the window

I saw red: a flickering

bulb, the television sleeping

and a sharp pang of loneliness.