• Vol. 01
  • Chapter 02
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All the crucialities that come down to
what you may scatter when you leave this life
the steam that rises off your rooftop once the sun has warmed enough to melt what settled overnight
the child-sized menhirs of your grief, set back from the house, where they can’t confront you every time you glance out the back window
the swaying cradle of sleep with its moanings, its promises of French plums and waking
aches, bruises of tempest or simple cloud, remnants of addictions,
fragile fronds of deceit sharp enough to slit the skin

You gather these stems in your sweaty hands. You are bride of life
with a bouquet of floating dissipation and faint shadows.
You toss to your waiting maids a pocketful of vapor,
gravity’s collection, the sound the pebbles make when they touch water at the bottom of the well. That hopeful wave, that echo in the round.