Feel the scrape of asphalt, glass,
Shoulder pressed into the past.
Split the input ’till nothing’s whole,
Cannot recognize your role,
An isolated sound, no sense,
Remove understanding from experience.
Focus on the cold, hard ground,
On ONE sensation, others disallowed.
DO NOT ALLOW fragments to coalesce,
Into a reality too harsh to bear,
So see only the ground, feel only macadam,
Let that be all you take from there.
That other time, that hellish place,
Banish it from inner space
And make that memory nothing be,
No sight, no sound, no reality—
One can almost pretend it never was
Except for sweats at 3 a.m.—
The pitiless knowledge as your stomach falls,
When you dream of the parking lot again.
Paula Lyons, MD
4/10/97