Tearing through the language

Sitting cold by the broken window

I type, I watch, I throw myself through the afternoon.

My companion is a cat, not mine

Seeking warmth, like me; waiting for day to end, like me.

I stopped counting a long time ago.

That's a lie, but which part? The "I"? the "stopped"? the "counting"?

A long time ago I was finished.

Now I am anything but. Broken apart and wild.

I betray this form. I use it wrong.

Faraway women use it for secrets in hiding.

I am a strange poet anyway.

My imagination runs down all the wrong-way streets.

I still manage to hoard things to lose

I hit on a truth sometimes, tearing through the language.