On Therapy

On Therapy

By D.R. James

“The simple route toward silent

used to be night, but we talked

so awkwardly and eroded

us by a mile. A tufted

titmouse shows sense more

reliably than we and seems

so cursory. Sparrows cruise

seed territorially in

somnolent pageantry. O-

possums even lumber

lovily. And these

I admire. But keeping us

was our sickness

or key plight as if we

were stodgy and striven,

and still silent as if we

weren’t true to truth; as if

we would never cleave us

or were an unexaminable

redux of our blown lives.”