I spent the whole day crying and writing, until they became the same,

as when the planet covers the sun with all its might and still I can see it; or when one dead

body gives its heart to a name on a list. A match. A light. Sailing a signal

flare behind me for another to find. A scratch on the page is a supernatural act, one twisting

fire out of water, blood out of stone. We can read us. We are not alone.