Sleep, don’t visit, so I choke on the sun, and the days blur into one, and the backs of my eyes hum with things I’ve never done. Sheets are swaying from an old clothesline like a row of captured ghosts over old dead grass. Was never much, but we’ve made the most. Welcome home. Ships are launching from my chest. Some have names but most do not. If you find one, please let me know what piece I’ve lost.