it is with me in the morning
as I dream in the shower
when I walk up the strand
when I flick the switch
when I make the coffees
and stir the milk
and wipe the sticky granules from my fingers,
there's this thing

which kept me distant
and silent when you needed speech
and cold when you needed heat
and inward, when the whole world was waiting
there's this thing

that makes the lyric
fail
still born
still being born
the novel, always ill defined
the sketch, better rough than precise
and the running,
the endless running over heath,
as though the body is not subject to this
thing

but there's this thing
which made me fail at loving
and caused my mind to wander
and split the spirit's hunger in so many desperate parts
that I could never get enough
and now while you are sleeping,
I crawl to find the words
to articulate this thing,
this thing which had me crawl
and ache for her


I do not like words
they are never quite enough
never as I imagined
never as I planned
never as it really is
and never of much use
when I see the covers shaking

If I fucked it up,
it was because of this thing,
this thing which holds the blame
for all my wrong.

I am writing a song called
"The Last Time That Anything Mattered"
I misheard it on the television
and I knew I could locate
the last time that anything mattered

the time before this thing,
this thing which ruptures vessels,
the time before this thing
was born