My diary is too honest
to keep, what's the sense

in reading myself unhappy
and puzzling my head off
over covered terms, peering

what yet can be seen
through the frosted glass, shadows
which I trace with clear lines

of later. It easily looks
like real, a few lines are enough
for a snowy landscape

that I can make thaw
by continuing to draw:
another page, another day

written to my life
blossoms written
on my path full of thorns

in the ghost house
of my body