It's hard to write poetry when you're being poisoned.
It's hard to dance and sing when you're tired and clipped of wing,
when every last dream-scene is blind flailing with knives,
or crawling half-blinded down an escape corridor.

Upon waking, perceiving the mystery again,
and wanting to write in this great twilight longitude,
I find my Internet poisoned, also---hard to type.
I guess some people have no clue about sheer distance.