THE EDGE

In the kitchen, a plastic cup of coffee

abandoned, rotting odor of compost 

thick with fish, impossible to ignore.

It is morning, it is morning in a strange house.

Waking to an empty room, 

I slept on a floor as sharp as razor blades, 

while bums sleep on street corners.
Breakfast of grapefruit is bitter on the tongue. 

What separates sound from the brain? 

From the body? Black nausea swirls, 

blurs the peripheral edge of the eye.

I walk in the Panhandle alone. 

It's the fine line of being afraid 

and being alone, to be tested. 

Bitter in the mouth like boiled coffee. 

The line is a fine line.

Bus exhaust curls around a red hibiscus. 

Its trumpet gasps for air.

Feet upon the earth, what's left 

is slimy as the sidewalks where the winos hawk. 

Morning in the city, it is a fine edge. 

6/10/79

Diane di Prima workshop

SF Zen Center