with lady macbeth

something                                                                                                       
like a
salty spit
stays in your
mouth
regardless
of swallows:
some uranium
half-lifed
out of bloody
comprehension.
something
sub rosa,
a clue or maybe
a potent source
of fuel
too thick
for burning.
and
that’s the
problem
always
unburdening
itself
heavily
on our ears,
no one believes
a glaring lesion
that
won’t go away. and
in ad hoc night,
you hail a cab
in the 
street
without a trace
of sanity,
without an end
to the sax’s solo,
without one
pathetic pill
to 
at least
make the echoes
softer.
and now,
unable to understand anything old
or hear anything new,
still listening for music
in the sidewalk rain, you are
a hair’s breadth
away
from a simple tragedy.