Underneath

The cursor is blinking, a steady

pulse on the screen, but I’m looking

at my hands. The fern is still

in a heap on the linoleum,

its roots exposed like nerves.

The ceramic pot didn't just break;

it exploded. Now, under my nails,

the black half-moons are set.

A grain of peat moss is wedged

so deep into the quick of my finger

it feels like a part of the bone.

I can't type 'Best Regards' like this.