sat down to write,
and gave permission to my brain
to venture out into the universe
for its alms round.
it came back with an empty bowl.
while undulating between anger and unworthiness,
the blank screen turns to dry ice numbing my eyes.
the stray dog feeding on the carcass of a cat
outside my writing window reminds me of the
singular guiding question to human life:
Is there room for imperfection in your heart?