by Daan Stevens via Unsplash

the night when I tried to speak about madness

I wrote
143 poems
and
a half
yet
I still cannot understand
what
is the meaning of this all
and why
my heart
keeps blinking
like the lights
in the corridor
at St. Mary’s hospital
in Chicago

it might be
that
I am more sick of this life
than that old woman
stretched on the bed
that had been put
to the side
out of sight
and
which for some reason
smelled
like jasmine

Thank you for coming to see me — you can help me to write more if you like.