The point is purple; the point is outside and we are rushing past it.

A prose poem from Amsterdam.

Everything is an edge: curbs, tea cup rims, tip of a pen, bricks, a fact, a fingertip, a bus door. I have been crossing too many edges. For two days I sleep in a train and at night I swear it rumbles although the weeds grow thick around its belly and in the morning it is unmoved. Joy is this fragile thing. When I tell last year in one word, I cry. And y…