When I’m depressed and think my life

to be like a dreadful desert wasteland I

can only survive, I also think every

thought I have to be like a subterranean

forest in “the dead of night,” the kind

of forest I can go to in order to be by

myself for a while, one where I can start

over and learn to walk with paradox again,

if resolving a contrary relationship is what

I want, and this thought in particular

I’m imagining to be like an ancient, healing

bath, a stone-encircled hot spring that’s

pouring with phosphorescent water, one

where a white wolf of loving friendship

enters the bubbling water beside me to

lay down on top of me and lick my face

like a dog that’s been waiting all day for me

to get home from work and be its slave.