"I will pay off the debt of habit," I say to myself;
Saliva is sticking to the top of my throat, my heart
Strains at the stomach's load, eyelids trembling
On the tidings of the dawn. "Tomorrow
I will write the poem of my being once more, tomorrow
Shall live in the spirit of my flesh." The pounding
In my chest begins to slow, the room to blur
And fray: I think no more of whom I would clasp
And clasping me -- sated, I pour
Across the banks of sleep. For awhile numbers will flicker
On the shades, a phrase will echo through the corridors
Of the soul; but I will swallow once or twice,
Then blink -- and worm my way into the night.
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