By the totem of a rabbit In a week of ever softer landings On a sheet doubling as a projector screen As a flowerhorn swims into view Through the light that crouches in the corner While you are waking In that first morning waking up next to you In the part of me that once might have been polyester That fills tentatively with organs again

Today my laptop registers like an organ like I can feel it, even from the other side of the house I should find my own rotten way back to some kind of mindfulness practice I should open the windows of my dark room I should read more of the works of celebrated poet Mary Oliver she wrote about geese—which is huge

This summer I can feel myself turning back into an animal. I wake up early and seek out trees, walking through the expansive quiet of the park until the heat starts feeling sharp on my skin. I leave the blinds closed, so when I return home the building is dark and familiar, and as I shut the door behind me I feel a satisfaction I can only describe as territorial.

There is a very fine line between writing and just sitting down like the difference between asking and begging,