Cortisol

A wayward intensity, terror,
So out of place with the vast forgiving sky,
The lounging life around.  Not just the backseat
Driver but the driver infinite
With me in the trunk
Me in the bed
Me in constraints
Where will it go?
When will it end?
Who pops the latch
To will—to what?
A castaway’s pluck
This islet, this brain
With a patience
For anguish
Forever.

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