The warp of grief against time-space. I feel I have done more things

for the first time this year than any other, can't be

the truth when this is my one body, singular light, present year, present

year, present year, every year. The sun doesn't

just rise. Every instrument of the orchestra 

can be a weapon. The mouth. The hand. Ours. There is no invisible hand.

Would like to say love you without possession but it is my love, my solar flare

burning in my solid hand. So sense is made. I apologize, I mean, I make. I would

like to kiss you. My mother hungering and her mother closing her eyes to it

could be sharp enough when rubbed

to make fire out of stones but the sun 

rises and we are responsible.

And in winter I will yearn for

this tropical warmth. This heavy heat like friendship

or secret. When it takes all twenty-eight

questions to get to the answer, but we

get to the answer. By this point, maybe

asking is the cataclysm. Signifying

lack. This is my empty, shaped astounding-

ly or possibly, like you.

If I looked through the human shaped

tunnel I made in the overgrowth could I see my past

self at the mouth of it? Could I love that

scarless body entering the woods? Maybe in fall. 

What do you think? Marina told me to live the day and report back tomorrow.