1.

 

This week’s apoplectic mood. It quickens, curls.

A poem’s lament                                  , darkens. I was exactly

 

today years old                         before I learned that random fact

 

I hadn’t known. Is this important? A chorus

of media and interactive platforms

 

bestowing false and equal weight

 

to a new Marvel cinematic universe film trailer, and the onset

of Taliban rule in Afghanistan. One of these things

 

is not like the other.

 

How language holds                each fissure. How

the clouds part.

 

This notebook fragment: the bare minimum.

 

 

2.

 

The children breakfast             at kitchen peninsula.

A single butter knife sprouts from open Nutella jar, loose scraps

 

of pre-sliced brown. A paired barrage

of tablet noise a mass               they somehow distinguish

 

between oatmeal spoons. Once done, they grab devices,

surrender bowls,

 

and barrel down the hall, to dress. It is someone’s turn

 

to feed the cat.

 

 

3.

 

The etymology                         of bread, and the history

of the mechanical slicing process.

 

Introduced in 1928, when American actress Betty White

was six years old. Sliced bread,                         the greatest thing

 

since Betty White. Alice, down the rabbit hole. Labyrinthine.

 

Associations, gather.                            This

might be a window, window, door. A leaf buckles,

 

breaks                                      , makes landfall. Leans in,

 

underneath the grass. As children emerge

from backyard, blades of breadcrumb grass

 

release from shoes to carpet,

hardwood.

 

 

4.

 

I do not struggle          with the poem, but with

my own attentions.

 

Valzhyna Mort: Sometimes our words             can cut meat.

 

The back of fire, curved. From one language

 

to another. I slip out, step away. The outdoor view,

so Alta Vista smooth. Cars trundle, bus.

 

And for a spell,                        all else is quiet.