Parts of me are either exploding
or melting away. I think of mammoths
in melting ice. I think of fierce vikings.
I think “time is arbitrary.”
I also think despair is a silly thing to cling to when there things in the world like
a fine piece of chocolate (valhalla)
or the skill of enjoying a private moment
in a crowded room (thrilling).

I know I am never bored but sometimes
so lonely and blue, it’s as if I know I belong
buried in ice too, shaggy and preserved.
It’s facing another winter with its wind
and howling dark times that sends me
to places of wool and wondering.
I think that’s fine and arbitrary too.

The cup sat empty

and beautiful

on the counter,

bits of steam

rising nearby.

A persistent light

snuck through

the curtains.

Another morning,

another chance

for something sweet

or glorious or painful.

What he saw was a weathered ruin,

-and he saw beauty. The lines, the stories,

the cracks letting in light.

She was well-worn, had been used

and was tired of thinking

about which foot to put forward,

sort of missing the point (if there is one).

She felt like a whale gliding through

a thick fog over a fallow field, mixing

metaphors like nobody’s business,

just to remind herself she was alive.

He saw and dismissed her fears

as inconsequential as rain,

knowing rain in torrents can bring

ruin but also life to a desert.