I raised my hands, God woke up;
I kept the scream
in my throat.
Just barely. I sat up in cold moonlight
caught in thought. Died.
So quickly I asked for hours and red spots left
I ought to sigh:
Okay, okay, okay, okay.
This is an erasure poem. Source: King, Stephen. Christine. New York: Signet, 1983. 84 Print.