This is you, teetering here–
bitter yesterday's coffee
and a spoon of sugar, everything
repulsive and desired.
This is you, a headache
at the party, a joke at the meeting,
a backward glance
where it should never have gone.
This is you, absolute hopeful
arriving with the afternoon mail,
but that one pain occupying places
inside it can never give up.
This is you, on the edge,
staring at creek water with a thirst
for desert sunset, sleeping through
marathons of regret, awake
in the hidden folds of the night.