It sneaks through me, the
disintegrating powder pill,
thickening my speech, slowing
my thoughts, deadening my
pain.
So I take a moment for inspection.
I taste my breath, I
linger over blinks
I am an addict of sorts, so
the artificial changes are
startling and frightening.
Having used marijuana as a
creative stimulant, I am
tempted to let this pill
stay gathered around the
hole in my gums, and this
literary excursion feels, well,
dangerous.
If it wears off mid-poem
will my metaphors disintegrate
like the pill in my stomach,
falling from sublimity to
doggerel?
Who am I with this additive?
This traveler in my blood?
Do I change in a fundamental way?
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