These Days

You do not know me on these days
     when I can barely lift my iron body
     from bed

these days
     when I eat bread
     crackers, cheese

these days
     when leaving home is a dream
     as distant as a summer breeze deep in mid-winter.

These days
     the only ones who know me
     are my pen and this small volume
     in which I lay my body
     between bound sheets
     in a narrow bed of silence.