A dog howling outside. A reflection of a clock light in a mirror. Not my dog.
Don’t come down to the obvious like writing this, I tell myself. My face itches. This bedroom is mine.
(three what
strange bedthoughts
you have my dear.
Well, give it back)
Thinking of sleeping
in dirty sheets.
An armchair sits
itself in a corner, likely
this night isn’t mine,
although I’m lonely in it.
The electric clock whirling.
I hickup vomit
and swallow it.
June 1972