O Yellow Eye, Let Me Be Sick

For I Could Not Read Or Speak And On The Long Nights I Could Not Turn The Moon Off Or Count The Lights Of Cars Across The Ceiling.

The Snow Has Quietness In It; No Songs, No Smells, No Shouts Or Traffic. When I Speak My Own Voice Shocks Me.

I Think It Will Be A Miracle If I Don't Someday End Up Killing Myself.

Sometimes The Soul Takes Pictures Of Things It Has Wished For, But Never Seen.

Yet Love Enters My Blood Like An I.v., Dripping In Its Little White Moments.