Records Of Memory And The Ass-Cyst That Plagues Me

My ass-cyst still plagues me.
Although you have fallen off into distant lands
my pain still bulges in the regions down there.
I’ve woken at four in the morning with tears in my eyes,
looking out empty windows
and not looking upon your soft skin.
Maybe on your lips somewhere you put lipstick on
or your hair is brushed and fixed.
At the penthius point of my being
I feel the pulse of the heavy world and know
it presses on the puss backed up in my cyst.

Then I feel something in my heart
and looking around for another person’s hand to help me,
I let out a plaintiff sigh and smell the stagnant carpet.

For they wash me in the doctor’s office in the morning.

The sunlight is baptismal.

Has someone erased the holy records of memory?


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