Something leaks into the earth
outside your window.
You hear it at night or early morning.
You see how it stains the walls
and the concrete.

It’s more than a dream.
You wake and feel it tickling
and grinding your skin and hair.
The problem is not about habit, exactly.
The night could free you
if it wasn’t so cool, or so hot.

You can’t escape your structure
maybe you can distract the scaffold
and feed your tastes, your failed
breath and veins, nerves
that light up agony.

Falling is nothing like it, there’s no
new fashion that can copy hurt.
Sometimes it’s early.
The train rattles like your bones.
The train goes somewhere else.

There’s nothing you can take
up a mountain, a mountain is a myth
and so is a path.
You sit and stand, nothing
makes a difference.

The times have become stiff
like drinks or drought, little deserts.
Lie down in the gutter.
Feel how it all comes back at you.