Wednesday, May 17, 2017


The Pill

If I have permission
to speak of your condition
… something left in a bottle sealed
on ocean’s spill of messages revealed
only to you; the rest of us elbowed
out of the way, the rest of us bowled
over when your pills were thrown
away, still in their containers. My phone
jarring as it rang, like a foghorn
announcing a certitude forlorn.
Torn between cajoling, correcting;
conversation akin to a gagging
on the revelatory pill
… of your careening will.


 Also appears in "Next Line, Please" of The American Scholar: