When my dreams are intense they pervade my entire day. Today will be one of those days. Ships run aground but grinding along anyway; ghosts, kites, I'm often a surrealist in my dreams.
I wake up still at 4am each day. Hour of the lungs. Lungs the organ of grief. All those old griefs moving through me at that hour. I imagine old griefs look like refugees, carrying the burdens of places they don't live anymore on their backs. Looking to lodge themselves somewhere I won't find them and ask them to leave. Sometimes I feel bad for them and offer them poems as respite; live here, you can live here forever and no one will mind. But along those lines, I'm scared to let too many into my writing. I don't want my writing to be a colony for grief.