kept alive by dumb things

and humbled by how often it was dumb things and not the sublime: the berries in the fridge that would otherwise go mouldy, not ethics or morality or even the simple fact of what do we owe each other really. the fear of it hurting — ridiculous, after everything that the body has borne, can bear, will. also the mess, which implies someone to clean it. mostly wanting to know how this one thing comes out, anything: this book, that poem, next thursday. sometimes a leaf, ripening on a september branch. sometimes a leaf.