Caterpillar, rest. This is a blinking of the lights, a look beneath the hood of this machine beneath the metal sheen made to mask both barbarism and the wound within the hour of a common cry against its edge. After so long looking, eat the leaves of this knowing tree, spin a temporary shroud to wrap you tight against the ripening of your untried wings, their still untested flight. Behind them, may you sleep once fully through a night.
