Beauty on earth so blue, even the cheese flowers a culture with no democracy... Yesterday (for example), I ate the same sandwich I eat every week: eggplant roasted in red pepper aioli, a focaccia jammed full by arugula, capers sweaty in browned butter. How have I come to love routine? I’m thirsty and abashed. The fabric of my childhood underwear triple axels in the wind—wow. The whole neighborhood watches me do emails, go to therapy: she shed revenge for forgiveness. I said it, “i forgive you” slipping like a key beneath a door, where never was a house attached. Is it beauty on earth, so blue? Each side stalled, you are touched, forstanding the sun. Its fat macula borne down grips (i wish! i saw! i fear! i heard! i dream) like an emotion. This is not a feeling. This can be, I think, a conversation.