A burgundy ant scampers along an iron windowsill, weaves manically around bits of old dust as if they’re skyscrapers. Dust picks up, sometimes, when the train car door opens. Makes me sneeze.  Take a bite from my organic wrap –  hand-packed the way my mother does it. Her mother would wrap grape leaves around loaves…

We are in assembly. Voices intermingle with deep jazz that drips from speakers stationed all around the house. Something beneath my sternum vibrates silently. The lights are colder than I know you’d prefer.  But I’ve got candles  at home,  with molten wax that oozes down far beyond  the little sphere of gleaming honeycomb.   We…