_ Henry’s son’s coffin’s wood’s grain had little knots and imperfections in it.
_ The little knots and imperfections were lowered into the ground on a Sunday.
_ Dirt hid them forever.
_ The pastor’s fingers’ sweat stuck pages from flipping chapters and verses and a fly went by.
_ The pastor had a name and everyone else there had a name.
_ Things still needed to be bought at the store.
_ The store stored people who could keep living and who needed their receipt.
_ Henry did not need his receipt or his change.
_ There was a Bible with mustard pages.
_ It had brittle pages. Paper pages.
_ Henry wrote in the margins and added footnotes and scrapped the whole thing and started a new draft.
_ The TV had a voice that synced with the birds who owned the sky outside.
_ Henry emptied his stomach onto his bed on a different Sunday.
_ There was a numbered list.
_ Laundry detergent was seventh. New bedsheets eighth.
_ Henry collected the empty cans that rashed along the train tracks next to his house and crushed the cans with his teeth and licked the rims but didn’t drink what was inside.
_ Lip balm was ninth.
_ Henry’s son’s mother’s house had an alarm system.
_ The alarm sounded like Os being called out in a storm.
_ Henry’s son’s mother’s lover had a dog that had teeth.
_ Antibacterial was tenth.
_ Henry is most alive in the half-awake morning seconds before memory catches up with consciousness.
_ Henry is running and watching things.
_ One of the things is a crushed brown leaf that doesn’t belong to him or anyone else and never will.
_ Henry’s son was eleventh. Henry’s son was eleven.