Morning, distracted, I read
with a disturbance—a mood
in the way, as if on the page.
That German term—Intrinsic gray.

The day and its mood veer apart,
overlap, a plane and a particle.
Then an impression of sensation
without location. It’s the word pain.

I am physically tired of myself. I dream
to break continuity, subsume
a new past, one I didn’t live through.
Its particulars are known indirectly.

I am hated in that life.
I can justify anything—scream,
hit my mother in the face.
It has cause, but no effect.