God’s own bureaucrat Needles, administration the in-tray gazes.
move 37 sought desperately for space already attained
gratitude settles like a cloak over the shoulders a peace I am unused to wearing, heavy in the chest that causes the tears to roll, a too-frequent occurrence.
a fate-committed trajectory, a vista what will be six months from now? preceded by eight of nine children in death mowing the lawn isn’t so bad.