The Apparatus of Healing

The Apparatus of Healing

Writing poetry at 2 a.m. is like

a plastic tube inserted slowly through

the right nostril, bringing moisture, food,

yet allowing still, the left to take an adequate

breath. Of course, my condition is not one

of thirst, hunger, asphyxiation--- no, it is a

stubborn case of someone who

still fears the cost of losing certain treatments:

the stomach churning dreams exchanged through some

inscriptic means of consciousness, the lungs absorbing

the anti-septic scent of words.

Something in my language seems to say

You are incurable, and no one else

I know needs therapy so late at night.