Depression V

The sizzling sound
was sweated through the walls,

to the bedroom floor, troubled
the curtains, got the crest
of pillows to shrink, put an end
to the song on the radio,
froze the bird
who eats crusts
on my windowsill.

Wasn't your death the hungry beetle?
Wasn't it the ocean losing
its blue in my eyes?

My heart, a trampled
sad ant, still can't release its heavy grain.
I don't even get to breathe
a poem in.

It's a sizzling sound.