small stone, day 23:
concrete steps crumble onto
winter-damp grass and base of an old
rose canes fall away from the house
a single hip dark green hanging
over the chipped face of a dutch boy
Some things bring me happiness, but I can't bring myself to share them, because it feels like I will let go of my secret joy if I do so. I think of my soul as a shriveled black walnut, the inside of a golf ball, or a mouse. Everything unravels on the morning walk -- which I hoped for -- but now it hangs loose around me like cold intestines on the floor that I must drag with me everywhere I go around this house. Someday I hope to find a way to light these things on fire. I'm afraid of a fire, but I want to stand in the middle, crouch in the center, and close my eyes to the light.