Dear Great-Great-Grandsomeone, Under a graphless sky, I’m writing to say: thank you for healing what you could; for passing down what you couldn’t. I’m plentituding what I can; what I can’t, I let tunnel me like roughage, like a “bullet,” like a slur I won’t daycare. What you gave me isn’t wisdom, and I have no wisdom in return, just handfuls of lifestock: Every day, a sky is. Miles are. We sing, entangled, and the root-world answers, and together we’re making. Something of it. Something of all those questions you left.
