Habit. How habit becomes     the rough taste of raw
sugar. How habit refuses        to spin itself into softer
strands, to cloud. It isn’t a sickness                so much
as the thing sickness interrupts. You              had been painting
your eyelids    every day until finger quakes. You had
been saying until the swollen             tongue. This is it
though, the inside       of the pillow brought out to show
how scattered              softness is—the puddle windblown
until it is wave. We are cresting         always, but break
only once, then recede. Habit. The ache        for something
surely coming next—a day     like the day before. How there
            are so many                 chances until.