wrapped in a midday shroud,
the blinds are drawn but the sun persists
in it's dutiful light. it penetrates your cloud of impurity.
reading leonard cohen aloud to yourself
wishing you were his f. or his edith
then sulking, waiting for some hallelujah
to ring your doorbell. if you had one.
imagine your favorite beast curled into a ball
breathing his stench into your pillow
and loving it. cry.