On a clear day, 

the horses

​

they had been 

fed were left.

​

across the field 

and had

​

people found them, 

they still

​

people who 

hunched over

​

But the sounds 

of their

​

a clear day, all the 

sounds fit

​

day, all my 

thinking fits into

​

What if our 

thinking was

​

If it only 

remains thinking

​

When out, it 

becomes

​

shapes with 

sharp points.

​

of thinking but all 

the thinking

​

Today, I am hungry 

but all the

​

only 48. On 

clear days

​

48 people, 

and 48

​

And 48 

apples.

​

But no 

matter how

​

6 dead 

Asian women who

​

All night, my 

thoughts are

​

morning, I lean in 

closer to the

​

drawn lines 

across my face.

​

both the 

outline and the

​

not meant 

to hold in

disappeared. Just 

the apples

​

The apples 

were strewn

​

become 

rectangles. When

​

gathered and 

ate them. The

​

their apples were 

far away.

​

chewing were 

over here. On

​

into the boxes. 

On any clear

​

boxes that can’t 

be opened.

​

never meant to 

come out?

​

within 

boxes?

​

weapons, takes 

on different

​

Today, there is 

no shortage

​

is divided 

into portions.

​

portions are gone, 

there are

​

there are only 

48 birds,

​

houses. And 

48 wars.

​

I keep counting 

grids.

​

I try, I still 

get

​

don’t fit into 

48 boxes.

​

shaped like 

birds. In the

​

mirror and 

someone has

​

I realize that 

failure consists of

​

outlined. That 

lines are

​

our 

emptiness.