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ll his joints are dissolved, all his blood is shed. I entered a museum in Munich expecting to see Jesus tending the poor; instead, he hung on his cross a thousand times, sad and mutilated. Such cogent narratives come of suffering. I stutter at my happiness, thinking it so unlikely. I killed myself, but left my body out of it. Dissolution heals, like flows of ice or money through pipes or diagrams. Compassion's a dull thing; it offers us only a two by four and a dream kit. Take out the directions out, only to find there are none. The catcher, he says, doesn't even signal pitch or location. He'll save the cutter for when he needs it.

--4 June 2015