in my rage against the way things are,
in my utter forsakenness
in my goddamn tiredness i know,
in my heart of hearts that this irritation
this things that sets me crying is the taste,
is the gift of the pain inside the pain
this is the thing that makes everything real
to feel, at all times, like a limp, a little
bit of the hurt that makes the world go round
do not resist the midnight tears that
burn as they fall down your face
do not wonder to much at rage
and at this new and punishing disgrace
this is the wound of heaven
the mystery of answerlessness
standing mute witness to the
holiness of not knowing
on the lip of despair