For so messy a tongue 
in a body so young - 
for such stumbling, stupefied, 
neat bouts of mumbling; 

for so heavy a mess 
as the one I possess - 
as the dead blurs of solitude, 
heads hurt and bodies bruised; 

for so wide and awake 
and exhausted a mind - 
how this life must have worn on me, 
time brushed and poured on me: 

never were eyes, though, 
much brighter than mine.