my hands always feel the softest when I'm holding my little girl. not like the parched, coarse, reptilian things they are the rest of the week. when I'm wringing them bloody in frustration. it all goes away when they are brushing her cheek.
we can see the stars now, if you happen to be looking. the singular, undeniable fact that we all share; looming luminously above every human variable. our consensual firmament.
the steam from the factory southwest of where I stand, billowing up from the horizon, illuminated by city lights and made somewhat arcane through silhouette of dead winter trees. "it's like watching a god being born", I say to myself, as if to assuage the guilt. my hands, cold and brittle like frozen parchment, lighting an unnecessary cigarette. it must be Monday.
