Round to rounds / The break in half.

This summer, like two summers ago, I will be living by and beside myself, stretched alone for months on a decades old wood floor, my spine digging, wishing for a horse to ride through the surf, straight forever along this place between everything and nothing, no saddle, but aching for a cat I've barely known to step across my shins or my neck or anywhere, please, and remind me or take me away, fixing.

After that, who knows but God, and it is of little consequence today. And, of course, today is the first time since when that I write something that is not academic, and in wishing to show it today is the day that determines it not to be shown. So those essays, then, where everything is giving way to nothing, where the next weeks of nothing blot everything.