it used to be a storm
rising up in my blood,
attacking me from the inside,
bursting like volcanic eruption
from the pit of my stomach
and my response
always the same:
it's not there,
make it go away
drink it away
eat it away
it's not really there
the reality:
it did exist
and it came
to kill me
when i least
expected
months later,
a bed half-made
with poetry books
and journals strown
about its covers,
the soft rumble
of guitars, pianos, violins
moving across the floorboards
lights coloring the floor, the walls --
inside, a tranquil pool of water,
ripples meeting the surface
and back again.
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