(“i’m stepping in the heart of this here” - feel good inc.)

used to

write several poems

a day—in the

margins of my

notes, in my sketchbook, on

study pages, wherever

inspiration struck—but

now i am stopped

up. (foot stuck in a hole,

hand stuck and numb, pulse

slowing down down down) halted

at the fork

in the road, looking back,

checking to see if

another stares back

at me. and even if no one

does, there is a shame that

crawls up my spine and

burrows under the lip of the

back of my skull (pressing

right up against my brain),

waiting,

waiting,

waiting—

always suffocating.