Woke at one last night and couldn’t fall back asleep until almost three. My right arm stiffened at the elbow, reacting to the box of stones Dad and I collected in May or early June.

Ghost pain, ghost memory of a pain… the phrasing is off. Memory of a ghost pain… the idea rests in the middle of my tongue like a communion wafer, dissolving slowly as the priests recite their litany.

As I close the blinds
archer’s moon clings in the west
counting syllables.


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