For years, now, I knock a double-tap, on kitchen tables, sideboards, walls, doors and the console in the hall, a ward against what I ward against. And sometimes, I let my finger, in fury, dip into and taste the danger to know what to wager, what to ward against.
Everything I have built is now gone. years lengthily finessing a curve, or this line’s spacing: caring to continue some kid’s fine idea of what identity should be.
For years now I’ve double-tapped tables and walls, doors. Nothing remains, only sandcastles washed flat by an ebb and raucous flow. I rest my hand on the window, to hold steady, to record, what isn’t mine, what I sensed shouldn’t be stored from sand, glass, a finger restored.