It is Tuesday. Do I always arrive here broken? I wake to the sense of having gone so far astray that there is no next step from here, no possible progress but a frantic unmoving. The honeycomb is all wax and no hole.

I am bereft and cannot see the way to save myself. My own efforts bind me.

It is Tuesday. Day comes over the battlefield. I remain. The field remains. And the inclination to struggle. And a bone deep thrum that is a mourning for a grace that does not flower here. A keening rises. I trust myself to it.