This didn’t connect as I would have hoped. Today has been a knotty rope of estrangement, restless hands pick and attempt to loosen—but the pace of the day cottons more to regular sighs than a gasp. This time at home continues to stretch and I shouldn’t complain.

The poems are dense, steeped in poverty, in HIV, in an implied danger.

For now I’m passing on the stack of poetry my wife bought me for my birthday.