One Evening When I Was Still Living

Who doesn’t hide out from themselves?
Most don’t bother to be quiet
About it—most drown themselves out

With all their blathering vigor
And vigorous blather to show
They’re the opposite of hiding.

Give us the soul in the motel,
The heartbeat on the empty street,
The spirit in the winding sheet

Waking tangled in the morning,
Sweating from marathons of dreams
Where who is was raced by what seems.