Of deep pain. The bone on
Bone grinding that goes on
For months preceding
The surgery—that's the way
The parent whose child is using
Heroin again feels in the middle
Of the night unable to sleep, standing
At the bedroom window, looking out
Just barely conscious of what the moon
Looks like—drained, gray. The moon
Is a popular literary image—solipsistic
Misery, misplaced love. Whatever.
Tonight, it’s nothing but a source
Of milky light, swinging high up in the sky
Shining weakly on the bleakness inside
And the bleakness outside that has
No other meaning but the cold
Un-crackable rock of itself.
listen to it here
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