i am going to bed, now
at 7:08
to lessen the ache
of being awake

this is a poem
this is the business
of us, artists
this is our “business correspondence”

inform a collaborator
a coworker – if you will,
of your passwords and process
before taking those pills

my corazón has nearly bled-out
migrating across my torso, my limbs,
and my crown
settling into my cornflower blue eyes
bloodshot — with or without drops and disguise

the weight of this goddamned red muscle,
i’m so fucking heavy-hearted,
this cursed organ’s still goin’?
my sweetest, singular escape, now aborted

the only thing i can do right, right now
is sleep
the only thing i can do wrong, right now
is think

(who should i send this memo to?
– no one, if not, to you)