The realization that the notion of change means nothing, brought in by tears at the exact magic stroke of midnight in Donald Trump’s New York hotel, Manhattan. Bookstores buying everything in sight to build an impression, being calm being calm, loving hands are held. Seeing winter trees so quiet in such a small mulled-wine-man-made town, searching for dead women down the curves of subdivisions in the dark. Waking wrapped inside scratchy childhood blankets that kept me awake last night, kissing that face near running hot water, shivering legs always trying not to be heard