The cricket outside my window chirps slightly faster than my heartbeat.

Dusk at the park: White moths, stirred from blades of grass, gather at our ankles.

Post-windstorm, I lay limbs in a pile, knowing I have not made a tree.

Two crickets chirp as the sun draws a pink blanket over the tired sky.

10 p.m. and I search the internet for photos of libraries.

From different angles, what I knew I no longer know: All is new, now.

I should say something about the body, how it yields to oil, succumbs.

The sun came out a week ago; I remember it vaguely: shadows.