I am sending them one by one. Only some of the interest will ever be paid. Nothing can be read to its conclusion. I pick up a gray weight with a number. I draw it toward my chest, as many times as I can, eight ideally, toward the tip of my nose, and lower, more slowly. Then I tremble pleasantly. I am made of water, the oxygen boiling away. When I meditate, which is never, I arrive only at how cruel and mistaken I have always been. Who can think of lunch at a time like this? It turns out to be me. The past comes forward, forming a chain, like baby teeth under pillows, or the long bloodline of dogs bloodying their mouths on moving tires, or simply a hand relaxing, lifted through the air, wishing for wind, asking please for a check.
