A poem of sorts from August 16, 2016:
Here. Take this lash.
Whip it across my face. Draw blood.
I prefer that to these words which cut
deep into my heart
and bury themselves in my mind,
waking me in the night with their pain,
manifesting as a dream of the cedar
I found long ago at the corner of Orange and Wayne,
mourned in my dreams alone.
Or in the quiet sleepless hours
I roam about in the house, in the cosmos,
once again feeling the loss of the old forests
as if it were my own.
My life and the cedar’s are not so far apart.