He thinks, “come into the stillness.”

He thinks, “Grow wild, intoxicated.”

Perhaps, he thinks, we are cannonballs.

Perhaps we are glazed and dazzled,

drunk on clarity.

Must we be wiped off the earth?

He sits alone, at night, again.

Shuts off his memory.

He writes: “I am fine

I am fine

I am fine

open your eyes

I am fine.”