go to hell, you

go to hell, you transcendentalist, I'm still here in the thick of it on the 23rd st exit by a man with the crumpled sign, "every little bit helps."

and come swim with me in reality, in an explanation of winter, all bitterness but bold self-miracle of survival.

I stalled, while you planned your escape through the turnstiles of the fairgrounds, your parents' kingdom, and your love books.

soon is "we're so glad to have you back," but I've run out of canned soup and ice has me wrapped up here, buried in a sunday paper.

it's monday, so forgive me tuesday and I'll be welcome again.  I'm no threat to your sleep, I won't stir much. can I give him my gloves and hat, and you what's left over?

I need no gravity to fall into my old order, but give me a week to control my mouth.