"What good is one's toil underneath the sun?"
that same indifferent sphere gave birth to the shadows
where we count the days off by headlines on the morning paper

Light pours through the transom
as wanton hearts turn endlessly in sleepless labyrinthine memory
(a passing bus shakes the whole house exposing two feet at a foot board)
what awful dregs have tired so easily! what futile repetition and longing!

In seizures we might gain true vision of all that is absolute and senseless

In a ceiling fan cadence
a pulsing mechanical presence
our bare arms prop up dull thoughts of how one sleeps through the night with all the binging and purging, snoring awakening

some may never shake their demons