I know I can’t expect the truth, so I’ve learned to trust my instinct.

evening med . . .
a line of clouds moored
to the horizon

Always, there have been times he stops taking them.

first calls—
birds in the churchyard
where he slept

When it got to be too much he was persuaded to check himself in, sometimes for months.

merry-go-round
the molded flowers
in the lion’s mane