1.
I release it. Let the steam escape
from this freshly baked loaf of bread. I cut it.

2.
It’s a light bleed. Careful relief, as I begin
a new escapade of hope, embark upon what I deem
horrifying optimism, roll up my Nietzschean doubts.

3.
I take the morning’s hand,
like a child being led to the end of the dock.

4.
The water is the most natural receptacle of sorrows.
She was the mirror before mirrors were.

5.
I want no one to find me, no one
to see me, no heroes to ride up and no saviors
to come comfort me.

6.
This is a ladder.
Which way should I climb?

7.
What are items to me, if not just extensions
of what I believe; what is loss to me, what is death
but the recycling of matter, infinity merely the space
for things to grow.

8.
We do not deserve anything, yet
we are worthy. I trust this.

9.
I once watched a Turkish man paint water.
Colorful inks he spilled, and with grace
pulled the pigments with blunt needles over the pool.

10.
What can I pull across the face of time?
Am I weaving as I should?