flat on your back
is as good a place
as any to decide
you can’t go lower–

the round slice of sky
sitting atop the hole
I’m in, like bread
covering the mouth
of the water glass
because the plate
is away being filled —

I don’t remember
why I’m here,
and I don’t remember
how to get up,
let alone out,
but I remember bread,
and I remember not
being in constant pain,
although the memory
dims with every throb
and twinge in my back,
my head, my gut, my limbs —

Father Dirt has stabbed me
in the back, one day I’ll fight
back, but today, I blink
at the precarious slice
of sky and pray
it doesn’t fall