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That Sinking Poem
I
This is called
that sinking poem.
II
This is called
depression, when
the day produces
feeling like
that sinking poem.
III
This is called
a month of Mondays
or a year of rain.
The sweat of this
existence, a state of
depression, when
it scurries across
your sleeping
body you wake and
remain aware. Thus
the day produces
crates of misery.
The day creates
imprisoned wealth of
feeling like
factories do. You
are now in the
arena, sleeping in
that sinking poem.
IV
This is called
a month of Mondays
that will never end
or a year of rain.
The sweat of this
existence, a state of
depression, when
it scurries across
the continent or
your sleeping
body, you wake and
remain aware. Thus
the day produces
crates of misery.
Your job, moving them.
The day creates
imprisoned weath of
plastic with a
feeling like
factories do. You
don't comprehend and
are now in the
arena, sleeping in
shifts and writing
that sinking poem.
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