Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.

Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.

As for me, I am a watercolor. I wash off.

I am a collection of dismantled almosts.

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.

I think I've been writing black poems all along, wearing my white mask. I'm always the victim ... but no longer!

The trouble with therapy is that it makes life go backwards.