Robert Okaji

What book do I pull from the shelf in this hour marking my friend’s return to that light-drenched inkling before everything collapses ? Which title, which weight shall I covet? What do we hold if not each other? Being no one, I cannot say. The earth keeps spinning even as I walk to the mailbox,

If all our voices were to meet in the atmosphere what could the rain achieve? When we give nothing we have nothing. Is it enough to listen? Wisps and heaps, ripples and sheets. Accumulated, dispersed, fingers unknotting death’s grip, steps taken around the flames, in caution, in delight, imagining the greatest undoings.