Dear murderous world， dear gawking heart，
I never wrote back to you， not one word
wrenched itself free of my fog-draped mind
to dab in ink the day's dull catalog
of ruin. Take back the ten-speed bike
which bent like a child's cheap toy
beneath me. Accept as your own
the guitar that was smashed over my brother，
who writes now from jail in Savannah，
who I cannot begin to answer. Here
is the beloved pet who died at my feet
and there， outside my window，
is where my mother buried it in a coffin
meant for a newborn. Upon
my family， raw and vigilant， visit numbness.
Of numbness I know enough.
And to you I've now written too much，
dear cloud of thalidomide，
dear spoon trembling at the mouth，
dear marble-eyed doll never answering back.