Someone is praying a terrible prayer. They do not know what holds them on their knees is their body, their bending, one rung among so many missing. Your fingers push icons back and forth on a computer screen, reflecting you, what you might call reflecting, a life led on little squares of light. The sea swallows inside the sound of the bird; the sound of the bird becomes the sea, a digital one, static that goes on and on. Your child, too, cannot sleep. He stands at the window, as night becomes morning, trying to click and drag something he sees in the air across the sky.
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