A Quarter Past
This headache,
these carpenters in my bedroom,
pound my respite
with no quarter.
Just now, I need, despite the contrary,
and despite the
natural law,
to rely on my self and to ratify,
ere I forget, that I am nothing.
No pastry
can fix this,
neither can the often self-inflicted dues
of which’s sound rattle through my skull.
There is no cure,
there is only quarter;
a benevolent quarter which will unfold Itself
when I have convinced Myself
that I need none.
