620.

This house begins to
settle down into my bones
with a held comfort.

619.

Often I think the
true parable of one's heart
will never be known.

618.

The fragmented soul,
cut into pieces just big
enough to let eat.

617.

Mountains and absent
memory are so often
gone from the hollow.

616.

I am lost, tread on
the road of forgotten hope
and lackluster dreams.

615.

The word patter of
Carson McCullers is stuck
on my tongue tonight.

614.

The entreatment of
that hope fragments, coached in
the veiled threat of love.