dreams of suffocation
steadily expanded
different angles
different times of day
in hands, in feet
press lips to every square inch
birds' harsh sounds
float above pain
nauseated and numb
wish to transcend
tedious and oppressive
obligatory secret torture
like asking a blade to cut itself
Found poem by Mary Bast
(From "Backbone," an excerpt from The Pale King, fiction by David Foster Wallace,
New Yorker, March 7, 2011)
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