In his dreams he was building a house. He wasn't sure if it was in the city or in the country. He wasn't sure. He thought, perhaps, it looked like the city but there seemed to be too many trees.

Your face looks different,

And part of us wants to cry at the stained undershirts your dad wears.

not that we ever had before

Pulling out your tax records scribbled with your handwriting, Pulling out photos of your best friends, Pulling out writings about my long-gone grandmother,

I sit in the dark, awake yet aware of another inner death. I breathe in the dark with a disinclination to the cold crimes of my mind. My skin senses the failure of evolutionary processes; a certain kind of abandonment. There is no iron cage of atone

Frisbee dog. Stealth the cat. Read more. Cut toenails. Less wine. Bind the ties. Avoid mirrors. Divide water.