I want love & not fear but these are the same.
It’s called The Lazarus Lift, this trick.
It is not possible to live your best
Life in a tunnel
of your thinking
The fish market is closed.
The café is closed. The bar is closed.
The daffodils are heedless.
What is secreted. Do you see
that life will become a thing made of holes.
All around me I sit in this
the inner sound and peril
common to any public vessel
where there’s depth enough to swirl, pivoting,
buoyed in a silva-tint of waters
A set of questions, I suppose;
how do we feel what we feel, and why?