I wrung my heart out today and it was graphite on paper. Then I could finally look for my writing which was stuck somewhere inside me. Behind my heart, I felt. Behind those words that fell on the paper. And, then, immediately, this came:
My writing suffers when I suffer.
And then I stumbled upon the haiku I shared just before this.
Poetry lies in a cryptic absence of elaboration, n’est-ce pas?
Barn’s burnt down.
Be patient. The moon will be out soon.