Corruck

"Is this how God hears the world?" In between tissue paper breaths, it doesn't matter -no one answers- my existence is peripheral, watching the drop of blood from my thumb freeze. My body insisting that I'm still here, existing. but. Out here on the ragged edge, (a footnote in the margins) counting the days counting the hours counting what's left counting what's gone counting the daylight: on the farmhouse porch, I refuse to break down the rocking chair and the sun sets somewhere in the left and I think of the wind and the wolves and all their voices colliding here at once exhaling my tissue paper, with a can of peaches. Relaxing and talking to myself: "Is this how God hears the world?"

Tissue paper thin breath.