I don’t know if I love you. I’ve seen your shining side, and I wonder how much of the other you would put up with in me, and I in you. Are we old hands at this? I think that those who have not been loved may guard their hearts unwisely, for having only ~things~ is a sadness.

By the trellised entry to the lake of sleep, I patter down shallow steps of slate, mists about my feet. The closer to its shore, the more slowly I go. At last, on the landing, the waters lap as I stop in doubt. The way back is onerous. I am in thrall to the pull of the dream sea.

Tonight, again, she called me from the lockup. Afraid of the phone police and the Tylenol nurse and the mumbling man who speaks through the ceiling. And I want to help, without humouring her or being false, for these things are sensed. But I fear to look into that laughing mirror.

On the road this day, I am headlong for a leaving. Grasslands vast and even. Lily ponds, and bridges over fens. I count the curves to my rented bed…to its deep dream of riding on ocean swells. I feel a thing, and name it: the loom of Jupiter.