These are the days
Dry perfect blueness
It hurts to breathe
I write with shaky hands,
look for the keys
look out the window
Can’t lie in bed,
yesterday’s secrets
deny the stillness
of a sunlit room
I pretend to believe
in poetry and coffee,
honest words and false
resilience, bouncing,
bouncing, forward, back
I’ve forgotten about food
and sustenance, found
seven dimes under
the car seat, just enough
for three butter cookies,
the ones that hurt
your back teeth
My movements
feel disordered
Dystonia
of the heart,
induced by
isolation, chaos,
the world
as we know it
ending
Found another
three dimes
and a quarter,
enough for coffee
light and sweet
I lied again
I believe in coffee
if not the truth
Butter cookies
hurt my teeth
like breathing
perfect blueness
Lie down
on silent sheets
Nobody knows
Ropes dangle
past windows
Baritone voices,
drills, hammers,
break blue
perfection
Butter cookies
hurt my teeth
I still believe
in coffee.