Shades

The rain checks of May give way

to harsher things. I sleep to the sounds

of waves hitting the coast despite the fact

that there are no rocks here, and no

waves, and no coast. I count every second

with a half-shekel and stuff my hands

into empty pockets. I wait for something more.

The far woods creep in; so do the demons

with chicken feet; so does the voice of heaven

going, “And what are you waiting for?”

Every fox I see, I laugh, but it does

no good. Every fox I see stands on

ruin. And what am I waiting for? At some point

the sun stops feeling warm, and just feels

like sun. I can’t find it in me

to worry about my hair. The crickets and cicadas

and June bugs sleep under my bed,

and I invite them to cuddle with me. I’ve

imagined throwing myself from rooftops

but there are none from which to be thrown. I’ve wondered

how it would feel to burn my hands

and discovered it is a sharper pain than I would have

thought. I remember the mornings I dragged myself

from bed, crawling head-down to meet

the sun outside, and the first time I realized

I didn’t have to. Every excuse I’ve made

for leaving rotting food out, and every way

I’ve disappeared. It started long ago, this fuzziness

in my head. I could have seen it coming

but I wanted it to come.