I kept an old bedroom, dust-laden now, sealed, in remembrance. The rats kept vigil on the lace of the bedspread. What might have been, never was, and was best not to have happened, enshrined now, just like the Grand Canyon is a place of dead and forgotten dreams. We go there now and only see little fish fossils, and the dreams are no longer palpable, dust-dead and ecru.

I do things my own way. Like in a Nike commercial. For some people, this is the path to the bottom of the heap, while for others, its 12 million for an endorsement deal.

Who is this? This…. Man Who Came To Earth. Is it a path to a defeat, like a self-fulfilling prophecy? That all his sins would come alive and eat him? Repudiation or vindication? I honestly wonder where it will all lead, but nevertheless, I should not feel trepidation, not a jot or tittle of worry, because it will come unbidden, unheralded, and sure-footed as ever, at an even pace of time’s snail crawl, like the hands drowsily scour the face of the clock.

This Man Who Came Down To Erf.

This woman who fed a secret, everyday, as if it were one of her children, nursing it at her breast, keeping it in swaddling.

The beguiled earth and the hearts that drank their fill.