Bukowski

the most underpart of my belly
hurts
like it is farther from my heart than my toes
but it isn’t

a well of skepticism
and bad poetry
and raised eyebrows
and betrayed shakespeare

sit beside me

and i try to write summaries of the first amendment
or picture matthew brady’s shaky hands in the civil war
maybe muse about the stubbornness of moths

depression is not something you write about.
it is something you don’t do and you are.
no one, not even bukowski
can put the feeling

of not feeling

into words