On the 85th night of 19__ there were 280 days left in the year.
The cure began. Just as Pascal carried the date of his revelation
in his breast pocket, I began to carry a dated hanky next to my heart.
Healing is a job that requires a mop.

This arm I am leaning on is perfectly suited to mine.
(I always wanted to say that.) Now cold winds have come
and the doctor has determined that my hope was full of holes.
"But holes in the universe are made of matter."

On the 305th night of 19__ there were 60 days left in the year.
The cure began. Beauty of style depends on similarity.
Snow for instance is a perfect show, because the sky
opens like a flower shaking out its secrets.

This time of year reminds me of the dot that completes my name.
The dot over the letter that pertains to the first person
singular is a symbol for me of my head.
I always put on my dot when I'm already out of the word.

At last I only have hope for heaven.
Like a person who as "come to" after fainting,
I now know the meaning of the question:
"Where in the world?"

Women should sit down like me —
wherever they are standing now — and refuse to move.
I always wanted to say that.
Whoa! Is someone here, or is this, like, a hat tossed in the air?

Am I really better at being crushed than I was before?