Here. Let me sweep your porch free of leaves, send them off like the brats who haunt the neighbourhood, their parents plaintive in old anguish, forgetful.
Here, let me give you some comfort, like a blanket across your lap, the chair hollow and soft. I will tell you what you want to hear. It is what you need—so many bitter pills to swallow
I may at least give you this minute sweetness.
Here, sugar. Coat the walls of the house in brightness so the sun goes blind. So heaven’s darkness finds an avenue it may drive at leisure, revisiting all the favourite haunts, mapping destinations. We have time. We have yet to arrive.