Can’t count on anything
but the rocks.
Like whitewater, I can’t help but run
headlong to Klonopin sleep,
brief glassy eddies,
barely buys me five hours until
head’s up at 4:30 a.m.
then half an Ambien
allays the underlying seethe
as I coast feet forward,
arms tucked under my sheeted sides
bracing under the morning command,
“Draw Hard, Forward!”
ignored orders
floundered in the roaring gush,
up against the capsized rest
of my days.

Photo by Avery Nielsen-Webb from Pexels


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