March 19 (retroactive)

no wonder the day makes me shake in terror, bite my cheeks, itch, hang down my head
—back from running where I found quiet down Gilman Falls Avenue, to the airport and my sacred river spot, across from Orson Island
laying on the kitchen floor to stretch I hear tv layered over conversation from neighbors, press of traffic, stereo—chaos—not questioned enough—not eluded enough
this is just imagined hell, I will do what I want to find happiness, I will do what I need to in order to love and be kind and gentle and nurturing respectful to sacred life pulsing about me