I find myself here without good reason

and no comfortable place to sit.
With errors I’m riddled and machine-gunned
by wrong, leaking half-truth like rain
on a sun-rinsed day, like this day
which leaves no room for melancholia, for black bile,
the true meaning of the word
which I misread and gave myself to
happily, my heart skipping rope like a girl,

and to think I almost rushed here to tell you.