[ampersand ::: & I write to you, I wander]

& I write to you, I wander. Roots, what of them now in this year of persistent historical desecration, of who & what has died of pandemic but not virus? I write my loves of bridges, their sky-to-water distances, their rickety reaches between the shores of us. Will all this grief become merely a curiosity cabinet for generations a century from here? Some days I limp, some days it is all a low & caustic flame in my gut. I’ve been mending a bit in the euphonious glow with atoms, their lumining. Splendors spinning against what sours. I seek molecular intimacies when the fiction of solidity disintegrates. There are protests here, too. Against temporal looping. For breaking the gravitational field of white supremacy. In March, a six-year-old black boy was arrested in North Carolina for picking a flower at a bus stop. White society concerns itself. Recites property law. Protects the flower, but never the boy. There is a whole music they cannot hear: the flower wanting the boy, the boy answering the flower, its photon affections. The radiant company they keep. Electromagnetic reveling. A marvelous & mutual witnessing. The summer brings me both exuberance & the unrooting of changes ahead. I bounce around. I feel eviscerated, I find laughter. Nothing can really be atomized. Everything sings of everything else.