The warm wet of a morning not yet turned, day snaked flush with day, spines aligned. Lines unwind, splinter to brittle segments and rays. The stab of it! When I think I'm grown away, far-off enough now to not mind the gap: skipped beat at every third stroke, a stutter somewhere in the heart. Simple, unmendable grief.

What do I do with this love? Interrogating myself just leads back into the big questioning breath-hungry chest which is so overwhelmed with feeling that it can only manifest as a huge swallowing hole such that everything goes around and around uselessly like in an astrophysicist's dimension-theory doughnut model, into the hole and out again without ever having gained any depth.

STOP. Sleepy eyes & spittly beads.