Sunday Poem

So the apartment was wobbling
from floor to floor each room tilted
from one end to the other with a stick
holding it against my thighs landing
in the hallway blood on the knob
the shadow is purple there are people
in the room no there are not
it is late eating two oranges and two
scoops of peanut butter a jar
it is like that sadness getting a stick
to the head pounded out of the blue
landing on savage memory an island
in the middle of the bed adrift now
wake up waving a pillow a white flag
if someone were looking in the window
seeing me do that like a rescue committee
in uniforms with brass buttons officials
with credentials not stacks of books
everywhere but like a light license some
clout in the industry of saving people with light
reaching through the window and pulling me out
but my hand is porcelain now it broke off.