*I initially wrote this as a poem in 2023, but revisiting it in 2026 I now think it works better as short prose (no line breaks!)

 

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I went back to my hometown looking for Circumstance, obviously. Willows lined the paths between fields out of a sense of responsibility. No one spent the grain tax, and we found a reason to say sirocco at least once a day.

 

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All signs in Shanghai are written in the same font. But even the liars there don’t agree: do we serve the self who remembers, or the self who lives?

 

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The beginning of a faraway rushing wind (encountered in late spring and before lying down) was once the way of the world: to be loved by, felt once more, created.

 

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After his death the physicist had his watch strap divided among his children: a daughter and two sons. They made it into a memorial for him. They buried his sleeping clothes among the blue mountains. They heard every drop of water which fell that day.