for C.K. Williams Stillness after reading a poem – digestion, not a grind it up spit it out pig to sausage process just a moment of quiet observation, appreciation: assembling new worlds. When, at 33, my cousin died, my aunt, estranged from the family, felt the upswell of inborn love. Forgetting a little. Forgiving a little. Stillness after the last breath out: expiration, like a sigh at the end of a long day just a moment when muscles let go before the next task. Digestion: quiet rest as inner gears click and warble, picking bits of straw and leaves and twigs – nesting. Mending a little. Repairing a little. A good poem does that – it stops your heart only to beat a little faster, a little warmer: butterfly wings in June.