It’s a constant re-reckoning: an existential dusting of hands, a hitching up of one’s pants.
But I have reason to believe moments of intense clarity and energy have a rhythm that can be experienced in the here and now.
The virus demands a deep imagining of death.
Although imaginary numbers are vital, I long for the intersection of your path with mine.
Since I’d never cooked much, I didn’t want to start, but I knew I had to do this for my mother.
