Starting

These days I only read the beginnings of books:
I can't continue, I've got to
  Go talk to somebody (do you see? do you see?)
  — No, that isn't it.
There's something worse wrong here with me.
I want something greener
Clearer
(Meaner? No. Nearer.)
Something's buzzing in my ear – her
Demeanour, the way she's sipping at her water–
Staring at the rose in its vase on my counter,
I can hear it – the same song, a little bit louder.
(Has it gotten louder? No, I'm just hearing it clearer —)

Begin again.
   I can only read the beginnings of books, these days,
 My soul, it gets overexcited.
 I try to hold myself here, with this page, but my heart won't abide it.
 I trip over my feet as I run
 (I can't hold myself up at this speed)
 –and I dream (am I dancing?) – on a page, at a party,
 Or out on a street,
 Can't you see? Can't you see?