Someplace between the mailbox and the quick trip to the laundry, I lost myself. I fumble in my pockets, lift the cushions, overturn a rebellious doorstop and spill indictments unto transparencies of embarrassed martini glasses. I rummage around familiar drawers, mine drainages for clues of myself. Like a worn-out penny fading in luster but too precious for words I dodged my own grasp, teasing myself with pleasures of intangible gleam. I cannot mourn or relinquish. I can only prevail in a paradox that is both my prison and my joy.
— for a sparkling inspiration that’s fumbling its way out of a labyrinth elsewhere.