My mouth blooms like a cut.
Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.
In a dream you are never eighty.
The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.
Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.