I left my apartment windows open
 — I am wild that way —
and the rainstorm ruined the place
 to teach me a lesson.
I caulked the cracks in the plaster
 and found patches from before.
I repainted the walls
 and noticed the hasty paint job;
 the corner’s curves giggled
  as I lay down the painter’s tape;
 my soul felt the healing
  of wet, tender bristles
  on the wood’s latex skin
  over cracks, bulges, bumps, and bends.
This place was alive
 with getting put together
 and falling apart again.
I beheld its incurable quaintness
 and brutal, undeniable charm.
Forlorn, I came to understand
 I would only add my own mistakes.
I lay in bed;
 the walls were mine.
The apartment
 an awning of wilderness.

Dry Terms

There is something in spontaneous being
 that defies analysis.

That analysis, set apart from spontaneous being,
 searches for cheating rules
 when, without rules, being one’s self
  is not the rule, but simply the way.

One sells one’s self short
 attempting to package one’s self
 into something that fits
 when fitting is supposed to be the substance.

The broad expanse of the self,
 the contemporality of the self
 is that most precious elixir of the self
 we fain would capture if we could
  without denying its essence.