I can’t make it. We’re staying in.
We can’t always gather this way but we do.
New wilderness tracing a wistful landscape, hum-vacuumed, cuddling escalations in body movement, ledgers of age. The brilliant live on in one mis-phrase, a word, and they always have, fudging abasement in a clean confinement serving a purpose within supernumerary states of being (confined).