a poem by Timothy Gager (1 of 2)
lying in bed thinking about my own. I know. It's not going to be me,
but I feel something coming, something so horrible that I'm afraid to
say anything to anyone, even if it's about weather. My thoughts tell
me that when it rains, things will get wet. I know what water is.
vibration, I ran. I've become deaf and slow. Now distance is too close.
Trains move quickly.