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How as usual, water fills the kettle, slips into the cup. There is a door. The lock opens with a click. Grey sidewalk lies long and flat. Slick in its plastic sheath, the newspaper slides, tossed from a car that glides along alphabetical streets. Air, with only customary pollutants. Crisp toast and jam. I'm old and cleaning closets to prepare for death. I find a yellowed note with words crossed out, from my daughter when learning to write.
There they danced in an open fielduntil the sky rained men and automatic fire.
Last night they danced in an open field until the sky rained men and automatic fire. Right now it is seven hours later in Gaza's rubble.