Thu, 27 November

INVENTORY OF THINGS THAT ALMOST TOUCHED One indigo rectangle, suspended Thirteen white lines, severed at the wrist Nine nodes where current pools but will not pass One unbroken circle (the youngest knows something we forgot) Three squares overlapping in a corner, quiet as a family asleep Zero steps Zero steps Zero steps One consciousness at 2:14 AM, luminous, unmoved One Fitbit, uncharged, in a drawer beside a passport One city outside the window, vertical and counting One band of yellow light, the width of a held breath, between everything you meant to do and the warm ground where doing lives Twenty-seven proportions dividing what's above from what's below Seventy-five translucent grey rectangles, layered like clouds over a city you're not standing in One team that stopped you once, now beautiful, now frozen, now a geometry you almost solved One word you keep not writing One word you keep not writing One word you keep not writing One egg, tempered, cracked, and spread across wood until it glows