Washed away.
All those years ago.
From time-to-time
it comes over me.
Like a meanness of the self.

But I always find the door.
A glimpse is all it takes.
Another cleaning of the old.
All that dark shame and guilt.
Lost in the space.

Then, some new delight.
And delight there is,
in these lonely affairs.
Crushed between each word
I write, and each step I take.

Then, beneath the sky.
I can raise my head.
And wonder to myself.
What is all this fuss about?

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