Heartsick
The evening light always
seems to me peculiarly sad.
My heart holds its hands
out toward the fire.
I visit the
doctor,
afraid
to upset the silence
following upon the collapse
of the great newspapers.
He decides to give me a shot.
He says it’s to numb me.
It
doesn’t. Although spring,
I can
see the system of roads
built to carry away the days.
