Before any rumour of virus, there was bread, there was bread rising overnight on the Mexican tiles, bread baking, bread broken with soup, spread with butter and honey, fine cheese, there was bread before, there was bread, there is bread, a hollow sound when you tap the bottom of the loaf.
June mornings, the sound of bees, of hummingbirds, of ravens klooking in the deep woods, and bowls of roses to sit on the table, opening, opening, earwigs falling from their hearts.
You heard their voices. You heard a Clark’s nutcracker. A boat. When you stood up under the pines, you had pollen on your shoulders. You don’t brush it off, your heart in the needles, the warm smell of the sap.
You will swim out into the clouds tomorrow to welcome the new year. The islands are your destination but you won’t arrive.