Sour scraps and tatters scattered on my sheets 

Like particles of cells molted from an unsung heart 

A heady pile of sawdust thoughts,

a warm and achy blanket brine

 

French leather perfume 

Paris in January 

So much to be thankful for 

To look forward to

Steep a cup of life for me that I might imbibe 

On an ancient balcony overlooking the Seine— 

That those cold waters might wash away the soot 

And make me clean again