Often empty as a spatial black hole
where I fear total disappearance and invisibility.
Or fighting the danger of quicksand.

Often like some gelatinous substance
that gives no support and clings to my
soul as field burrs to clothes walking outdoors.

I’m not looking for therapy to soothe
nor seeking solutions that will fix an unfixable thing.
What I do want is a place to stand firm.

With music in one’s ears or in one’s hands.
With pencil or computer to inscribe language.
With paintbrush or sculptor’s tools to birth an image.
With heart to be a friend, a caretaker, a partner.

These are windows and doors through which
we can locate places of our own.
Places that are not defined by specificity
such as artist, homemaker, doctor, cleric.