i prefer
writing in the
morning

if the words
feel sad
i can peel
the scab
lest it
fester
and color
the day

but when
they call in the
evening

i sit
unable to swallow
as the words
swell in
my throat
and i face
giving in
or giving up

if the nib
touches the
amorphous
bubble of
fluttering
sorrows
it will
rupture
the membrane
the tides
sweeping me
into another
desperate prayer
to oblivion

in the morning
hope is like
honey on my tongue
in the evening
i taste only
acrid batteries