Some days I am a placeholder. It goes against my tendency to live-quiet-but-with-purpose. Lately I am holding my breath for something to shake loose, take shape.

And so, I reach for two sure things: My old-book-turned-into-journal and blackout poems.

Scribbling and scratching among the type helps me shape the shapeless hours. I'm not creating keeper poems. But making things matters. Maybe all writing is exercise, a preparation for the very next thing.

How to Get Through

With bright effort,
start clean.

Consider the danger
of experts.

Cry, and give
another try.