I have no complaints. The sockeye fish hurries up river, but human hearts rest in nocturnal bliss. What scavenges the weak, the herb,
She writes her life down in fragments. How it does and doesn’t appear. The door most of all. A fear of simple locks.
At day’s end, I tucked her snug Cocooned against late autumn’s night, Coaxed her gently to bed’s center So she would not fall.
— they never — close their eyes — passed on roadsides stained or clean fresh or spoiled bones broken twisted all akimbo