The next day

"The next day" Edvard Munch, 1894.

 

  Buried alive
       with the eyeball expectant
        in movements convulsed.
                     The voice muffled
      by the shovel and the dust
                 slowly accumulated.

 
Face up,
digging the little air
                  that I have left
I abandoned every hope.
My mouth still is figuring
faint shrieks.
But it is more than an awakening
                       in the same bed,
with the same shrouds.

 
It’s another number

tear off from calendar
in this daily vertigo of existence.


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