Days of silence in my journals are important as days of extreme disclosures. Absence speaks as loud as presence.

Even in poetry—a line break or gap between stanzas stress extended distress or unrecordable joy.

Tomorrow they draw blood, checking for probable cancer. I do not expect them to find anything in my system this early. Yet the potential for disaster remains. Ironic circumstances of fate.

Do I believe in fate? I once believed in Divine Intervention.

Aluminum tub
          overflows with summer storms
                    outside my window.


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