Yet love enters my blood like an I.V., dripping in its little white moments.
The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.
Though rain curses the window let the poem be made.
Give me your skin as sheer as a cobweb, let me open it up and listen in and scoop out the dark.
I find now, swallowing one teaspoon of pain, that it drops downward to the past where it mixes with last year’s cupful and downward into a decade’s quart and downward into a lifetime’s ocean. I alternate treading water and deadman’s float.
Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.