the anxiety of me is terminal: a wallow
of shakes that makes everything a deathbed.
and there is no defying death, i’ve found:
no merlinic incantation poured atop a cancer,
no lazarus pill to stuff into the rictus of stillborn ideas.
i’ve tried everything, too—pretending, posturing, laughing,
drinking, running, chasing, dissembling, resurrecting—.
these are not the skills i put on a resume. no, they are
more like the subtext of a Sunday morning advert:
wanted: the end of all things, so at least i
can go back to bed.