Valascere

Valascere

Valascere

She stays asleep: tonight her soul huff–puffs;
for pain is forthcoming, she knows it and waves the white flag
(as if giving up the world’s finest imported sweet stuffs
for a pain that begins at the scraping of the bottom of the bag.)

For the pain is a twitching and itching, new boredom and Now,
now what shall I do, the next minute, next second, next hour?
— a twisting and turning of muscles, and sneezing and how
can the cramps and the sweat be relieved by the day’s seventh shower?

Well, a weak kind of suffering, then. But you’d rather be dead.
And the world, that is you, is aware of each click and each clack.
The day shouts with children outside, you stare from your bed.
It will seem so obscene you will want to jab in and sink back.

Well, a weak form of loosening then. But you’d rather be dead.
And still you’re aware of each clang of the terrible clock.
The day shouts with children outside, you stare from your bed.
There is nothing to utter, no love to offer, and nothing to hock.

So I hear her sleep; her soul goes all awry,
and sleeping is getting another few hours through hell.
She will wake and be bored and disgusted by an ugly bright sky,
but it’s one hour less to joy’s violent cardinal yell.