Nearing Profound Heights

Just two and a half months away now from two years of recovery. Of staring at myself in tin cups of coffee. Of learning how to be grateful for four cold walls and a roof. A camp cot and hot plate. Even the mice nibbling at the wiring all night. And the stains on my pillow. One looks like the Lord, but after he'd been dragged and hung. Dirt and blood. I leave it to be reminded---that I may wholly own myself and then somehow try to build my new quiet little house out of these same damn bones that used to beat holes in the walls.

dead ladybugs . . .

he tries making love

to the deep silence