I'm the wimpiest person I know. I thought the poem was true. The question emerged from cynicism. The question emerged from fear. The bush when it blooms bobs in the night wind. It was the spring of 2007. Or 2008. I carry a box of baseballs on bart. We throw a party / almost burn down the apartment. This is before Frank died. The linen the coat the beds the house the nouns. The paycheck emerged from cynicism. The paycheck emerged from fear. I do not enter the green shed and go deep underground. I do not throw my body against the wall. Should simple belief direct action? Does belief become knowledge when it can no longer be excised from the body? The looping. "The chicks kept falling asleep in our warm hands." I try not to bruise the flowers. I feel intellectual and emotional shame. It's Friday!