The picture of myself is thus:

fading, losing color, changed from smile to frown,

gazing back my eyes, alien, hurt.

Where my pain is, where my hurt is;

There my heart is—

my soul resteth beneath.

The impenetrable dot that is in me.

My window, my haze, the old warmth of the days—

is a sink now, a gutter of funk.

Every dandellion is plucked by one up above;

whereas everything down below is just for show.

Heartstrings unto heartstrings.