It won't come up on you all
of a sudden like joy or spring
rain or the first time you held
because you liked them.
There is a place inside you
everyone hates. It is not round.
This place is all corners, not warm
ly lit, but warm, too warm, stuffy
even. There is either a bed
or a puddle of pillows, and most
assuredly a blanket under which
you now womb. “But, sunshine.”
“But, exercise.” “But, Jesus.” “But--
” But shut up. You've paraded
every pill, waltzed every doctor,
spelunked every self-help source.
It is always Thursday here, and no
salesmen sell insurance
for this most unnatural disaster.
Silver dust on everything,
no crawling out. There is a place
inside you even you hate. This is where
you live now, pay rent in feelings.
It will slip up slow, swallow you
whole, devour your want