A friend punched in the face on a subway platform by man she ignored too well. What sky I wanted to say. I filled the refrigerator with food to express my love. Dissolved into sunlight. No connection between hymn and hum. A helicopter swoops in close. Watching Desk Set to stay awake for the phone call. The search bar suggests the name of a man killed by police last week. Finding an empty restaurant on the first cold night. Were you sending your love through a series of tubes. Kids in the airshaft mark a new season. As though the last three days had become a portal to Glasgow 1997. Trading up for the brighter room. The brightening noon. No connection between hymn and hymen. At the end of each night to say that was a good night. Powers of speech. Powers of horror. Have we imagined these songs of matriarchy. Waking into another orange sky. Rechecking the Online Etymology Dictionary. I made a panic soundtrack. I got right into bed. Weighted into some new gentleness. A friend of friends killed by her roommate. Leaves browning into the streets. Remembering an old anger I am suddenly in its center again. Hey goddess. Who were these people who reported once having felt safe. Who metabolized the nation as a kind of carapace. Let’s check the polls again to give a name to our unease. Like every month we waned a little toward the future.