by Jason Heroux
The wind at my back knows me
in a way I’ll never know myself.
We are in everyone else’s debt.
The physical urge to relieve yourself
is something the soul
can only dream about.
And now I am lost.
A lost thing
rarely knows it’s lost.
It usually rests happily
under sofa cushions,
down a drain,
or in a ditch,
thinking, Something
meant to put me here.
And wants me to stay.
— from Juniper Volume 3, Issue 2