Tell me: do the living still outnumber the dead?
Every day I reach blind into a well full of covenant.
My morning is grasping at beached eels. How many as there have ever been, and all at once.
My stillbirth is always aging in portraits, black and white — gradient an un-respected skill. Film was never enough.
Blame it on weather balloons, but every house can’t help but haunt itself. It’s in the grain of the wood, the exuberance of foretold patterns of that we are made to accept. Heredity unsought but with us all the time. EKG a topography, crests and troughs between wavelengths of conspiracy. Lintel pretending to hold up a door, a span of closing in. Beams of someone’s light.
We put lithium in the water supply because it’s only polite.