Enough. These few words are enough.
If not these words, this breath.
If not this breath, this sitting here.
This opening to the life
We have refused
Again and again
Every once in a while, something I read will, independently of its aesthetic merits, hit me in the chest like the rear end of a sting ray. You ever see a hockey game where a puck is hit slowly from far out, and all the outstretched sticks miss it by inches and it slides right into the goal? Once in a blue moon something will strike me like that, when I least expect it, and lay me out.
Just in case you all thought I was all about abrasiveness, poorly-repressed anger, and adolescent sneering.