Some things are good. Moving waist deep through snow is good. Finding tiny feathers in my tear ducts is good. Taking my sword and cutting a burning hot line through the air is good. If I see a mushroom on the lawn when it’s not supposed to be there, it’s good. It’s good when you whisper between the cold curtains of my hair. And it’s good, good, good when the air fills with the tiny dots that float by my eyes and spell out quiet death threats // and tell me about the glass road that sits in the sky over our heads. I feel calm right to my edges.