Slow misery for which there is no cure
we spent it all and now the heat is gone
save burning glass. To love’s to be undone
for love is pain to lose. We can be sure

life’s a slow sense of molars furred with plaque
grown sensitive to heat and light and sweet.
We mark in every human face we meet
weakness and woe. For all of us will lack

a night’s untroubled sleep – there’s bills to pay
our own and others’. Phantoms of grey dawn
that sob like midnight – scream that turns to yawn
exhausted utterly. Another day

of pushing boulders and unpicking rope
adding bad sums whose total is no hope.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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