There is little blood
            left in my fingers,
and I admit that
            my toes are turning blue, and though we were warned of such things happening,
it still makes me uneasy,
            as if their appendages have broken free of the old-fashioned mysteries and
set out to live a new life among the jays and sparrows.

            Is it true that all glass is a mirror?
I’m not sure, I studied the humanities, or to put it another way
            I’m not sure of anything
outside of heat and the evaporating
            solitude that robs us of the loneliness and innocence
that permeates animals and children.

So it is that I request you be still
            and quake silently in the dark noons of the garden,
bestow your autumn hands on the dim odors pervading the curtains
            the affairs of a monstrous tragedy are the bedtime stories we want to hear repeated.
The fawning fever dream of a new possibility,
            spiraling vision
inviting flames
            into the habitual
such that
            burns are inevitable
and the scaly skin
            that’s a daily reminder,
another part of the routine
            another fancy lotion to remember
grieve! grieve!
            the quiet solemnity of drug store aisles,
faded UVs and blinking
            ads, abutting the space between
human need and such deviance as industry and organization.
            There are finally more living than dead, now.
                        it’s fine
I’ll only seek recourse if the rest of things turn out more boring, seeing how I couldn’t celebrate my victories, anyway, it seemed absurd to mourn my defeats.