I washed windows today while Bob Dylan sang to me, his rough voice, my edgy swipes. I talked to a muse today, his rough voice, my wince. I sprinkled powder on Sophie's clammy hands today, clipped her nails, faced the care squarely even in the moment of loathing. I curled myself around her, shut my eyes when she did, breathed her in, would we could do it all again, I breathed, the fetal curl, back inside me, different this time, please, let it be different this time.
