Seven O'Clock on a Sunday Night

It's a pinwheel moment;
everything spins too fast around
This.
One.
Point.
I'm staring down Orion's Belt
and it's twenty-eight degrees,
but I can ignore
the lights,
the cold,
the neighbors,
because the present
is melting in my mouth
and I can't bring myself
to swallow it down.
For now,
I feel all the world
like an empty field on a dark night,
so I close my eyes
and spit my pith at the stars,
because it's too quiet
to scream out everything I feel
when I shut off my sight.
TAKE ME OUT!
I want to call,
but it's a whimper
in the scheme of the universe,
and I don't think I really mean it,
anyhow.
And coal as dark as mine
turns into diamonds under pressure,
so I pull myself up by
bootstraps I don't have
and stumble back inside the house,
wondering why I didn't
lie down in the drifts and
shake myself out instead.