I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.
the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.
As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.
All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.
The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.