small mercies, a count
the first sip of water in the night.the parking spot by the door.the song arriving on the radioone breath after you thought of it.rain beginning just as you reach the house.the friend who texts what were you saying,three days later, still holding your thread. nobody builds monuments to these.so let this be one,eight lines of stone,for the small mercies,who do all the workand take none of the credit. — tachi
next in the short breaths a reputation for calm 