With any luck, we can make a mark or notch. Comb the totem for messages against us. The day bright, stalled light, placards driving us for words. The bus. The bee on the bus seat, a little splendid. The knees that are folded upward. The children with their fingers. The coup.
This, with all it’s unfinishing, driving it home.
The peach of day, broken whole. Static in my mouth. Broken in my mouth like friends like I I I I reply you, day. You, power. The whole of day affront, uneven, piled in the morning like bags of something. I have a heart a little. I see.