It is Friday. I am so tired of collecting these beach rocks. The unstackable. Stacking them. I am so thirsty and so lonely for the dark. I am burnished by the buffeting. I am unvoiced. Indistinct. Sliding out of reflection. There is consolation in the underside. There are mittens in the pockets.
Hush now. Hush. Wait for the turning.
There will be evening in the branches soon enough.