Diagnosis

The self grows leaves it thought impossible,

And learns to name the jarring pattern

That, however cautious, its errant footfalls made.

Sometimes, if you listen, like the dew,

To the wet quiet of morning, to the

Dissonance a late, uncomprehended trail made…

You’ll find that, waywardly, it sings, that you can stand

Its aggregate complexity. You’ll find it gentle, eerie even.

You’ll find answers within, to the mystery of

This strange, earnest, spectral fellowship.

It has a voice. Soft. It has a voice like

inexplicable laughter in the dawn.