What are words worth when cops run amok and my city burns with the others, at the end of another day of nearly hallucinatory late spring beauty? My small experience, my paltry nude. They who have power to hurt and will do none. And they who do? The fires lick at the edges of everything, they glow in the center of our eyes, too bright finally to ignore. This is the peace that is no peace, only stillness. This is the injustice that is socially distanced as window air conditioners whitely whir, counting the breaths of isolatoes in the dark.