after sleep none of this matters and
i know there is no hurry,
i am soli as stone, solid as ice,
melting as ice in March and April.
if i tried, if it was worth it,
i would not beabl to make any

sense of you what is more,
at this time i am unable
to worry, i am unable to
care about things i cannot
care about, weep for what
i should not be weeping for,
i just don't believe in your
jesus, or in her no-god,
i'd rather pray over a stone
i would rather sit here
composing the beginning
of a poem than be devoted
to confusion
i would rather sleep