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As a kid I never thought of "pain" as
something I felt. What I felt I could not
name or share. Now out the window I watch
a thin chemical yellow smear being
pushed down by gray rolls of night. Behind me
the physics of the TV screen

Plays out plots and previews. Outside is shapes
moving under neon like those who have
already moved on. Lighted windows stick
in the sky, independent of stone or
brick. I can only exist in writing,
when for a while I do not know

I "exist." I exist only when I
don't exist? There I am at the window,
staring back at me, in glass, dependent
on the dark. In a room beyond this one,
I see myself in replicas that come &
go with light, most there when most dark.