From the paper journal:

[judecorp]

anger balled in tight fists like
hard-packed ice balls,
frozen,
and, like cold projectiles,
mar my face with
bruises and
dripping water.

(30 July 2001)

~//~

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of the Chapel were shut,
And "Thou Shalt Not" writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires.

(William Blake, The Garden of Love)