But there are a sort of Saints meet to be your companions...but that they be concealed. My desire to unseal them makes me sleepy. I no longer close my eyes to screens of green men or penis-shaped noses. The eyelid is a drive-in, my body the car into which an old cord winds. Keep windows open to receive the dented sound. I'm down to words, the ones that float like feathers after bird-storms. A small bundle of curly hair in the bathroom means my husband cut his hair. Phone call means a colleague died. After long sickness, a sudden fall. I pick up the taut curls, deposit them in the trash. I put the phone down, scratch a kitten, try to summon his voice.
--23 May 2015