love in the time of death

... Death has begun to grip even me with its own arms, its own skeletal wrists bejeweled with anger and contempt.

to be.

...there is the conversation...given in the language of chemical exchanges...

first entry in a new notebook.

All things repeat.

you may delay

The one that holds fast to my son’s finger lingers a while, a portion of its allotted thirty-six hours spent here under the breath of a three-year-old boy.

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