for Courtney S. Jennings' "upon the surface of the deep"--
Depression's clammy fingers slip fr'intents 'Non twixt her empty ones cuz in betrayl: She is a woman. Like some ghost t'avail, That mist creeps through her veins til ah, from thence We feel it in our bones, as if good sense Bows low the head to yield to that detail Which eats small joys erst wont to be more hale, And she melts through the floor, a puddle hence. Thus I embrace November's ghastly tour Of Death and call grey hours MINE likeas due. Find solace in these naked boughs that stir But dimly to winds' chilly breath, as't woo; Yearn thus to wander through the firs, in poor 'Scuse? Nah, cuz Thy voice seems there, or is't who?