I broke into my own home
and found it empty.
I abandoned my home
and never found the way back.

I am a captive of my own need
to capture the moment.
I am a slave of my own desire
to be free.

Truth cannot be commanded.
Love cannot be won.
Peace cannot be earned.
Goodness cannot be achieved.

My lack of aliveness
would terrify me
if I were alive enough
to feel terrified.

I’d rather not be here
with what else is here
but what else is there
but what is right here?

It’s hard to love
and it’s hard to live
and it’s hard to write
without loving or living.

I want to own a Russian cat
and read Dostoyevsky
by a fire in the winter
in the woods of Arizona.

I want to speak
a word
for speaking
no words.

I am most real
when I confess
that I don’t know
what it means to be real.

It is evening now.
The dogs have stopped barking.
The rain has stopped falling.
There is no wind.