Adrenalin, poison, soaks the hollow muscle.
The yellow and the orange
and the brown leaves are sodden too
(all that falls from the sycamore tree)
and trodden down flat on the pavement.
I can say this without hesitation:
the private hospital does not exist.
I'm not sure
that I'm here myself in any way this moment.
Work is where I'm going to be
between signing in and out.
None of us will be done with the fog
until the fog is done.
Old ladies with red lipstick gash mouths
are waiting at the stop.
Step down into the grey.
Ah, anxiety: this is my coming Winter soup
for every other day.