I am the foot
tapping rhythm to amplified minutes
or pacing the walls together.
I am the ashtray
overfilled too soon with butts --
an hour of telephone busy-signal.
I am the pushing
through crowds of uninterested strangers --
an isolated scream on the freeway.
I am the growling stomach
that can hold no food.
I am the lung restriction
that allows no yawning or sighing,
clinging through evening tossings.
I flood in a sweat that does not cool.
I am fingertips
bitten unrecognizable, bleeding.
I am quaking hands
pressed tightly over eyes.
I am the fist
self-thrown into stone walls.
I am that black
which, exposed to the brightest light,
reflects nothing.
I embrace no comfort,
breed no pity
raise no hope.

 
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