Mother once told me my wakefulness took
up an entire floor—that’s
why I house myself in the woods. All
the tree knows of cover is moss. All
the child in Aleppo knows of cover is run. I can’t
reconcile what’s happening in the world. Night
leavens its darkness, buried
in hypocrisy and vile
politicians. There’s a fog
catcher in Lima who brings water
to the poor. I’ve asked him
to speak to us.