That moment when the word incarnates, finds its skin: yes.
— Lia Purpura, from the essay “Sugar Eggs: A Reverie”
I’m gnawing off my own survival
and feeling full at the end of another year.
That any private emotion can still be felt
feels victorious. Sure, sensationalism
feels good, but only for so long.
Invisible patterns, an intentional result,
form this temporality, which may be also be
averse pacification. It’s not even midwinter
and yet we want—phantom abundance.
The way marginalia signals scarcity.
That kind of resourceful:
our aggregate bodies immersed in attention.
Pasteurized sameness. But wait—
there’s still anticipation—
a specific kind of waiting.
What clouds teach us.