Therefore, the weight of Ish on my legs. (Still full belly from the night before?) The gentle snore of somebody I love. The chatter of Blih, passing by, on his phone. The coffee, that made it down, bitter savior of morning. The what-to-do, ten thousand tasks on a throwaway list, bricks out of which a day might be built. That structures over unmarked graves still provide shelter from rain. To wait (for the moon) out the stages of grief. Soft, you. Sometimes, all that’s visible are the ironclad logics behind our great diversity of angers.
