From ‘That Which Gets in the Way’
six.pm
what would be empty spaces between
rotting trash
icebergs in the gray slush
I am being pulled deeper into
ice bergs I smack and gash
the crown of my head on
between those horrific chunks
in what should be empty space
where i could draw breath
is instead a greasy, drying tar
so thick it fills my mouth
the pull of my lungs
gasping for air in death
can’t pull that tar deeper down my throat.
i chew it
because what else is there to do
as the goo
in which i float
expands my cheeks
pins my tongue
of course I vomit
of course I bleed
of course I don’t escape
A. M. Langston 
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