Someone
Of luck, say what we didn’t win. We acknowledge our fixed numbers and convoluted equations. Say we accepted loss, our lethal mutations, our pitiful grins and ill-fitting wrinkles. Say we kept at what kept us here, bodies piling about like a season’s famous leaves—incalculable numbers someone must know. Say we found the one leaf we never wanted—veins red, its heaven streaked as the summer it became. O holy day.Dwaine Rieves, When the Eye Forms