Little specks of things.
We have this hunger.
So let us contemplate the hand. The distance
of the hand.
The grasping of the distance.
The hollow of the eye.
Let us say we are walking into a building
we'll not walk out of.
We know we're all here
somewhere. The table is set.
There are plants along the window.
Out of curiosity. Out of the body
travel.
We consist of smaller things.
"The curtains kept swaying."
We'll tell each other about it.
We'll accuse each other of not caring enough
about what we care about.
As we're folding
from our houses. Folding into the yards.
Our flaming streets. Our streets
in flame.
---John Gallaher
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