For the hole in the aorta of our nation I’ve got this stapler.For the slow descent of the sky I’ve got this stapler.For tears pooling in the echo of the dog’s sharp bark,for the poor signal tethering grandpa to grandsonand the absence only one of them knows,for the buckled sidewalk in front of the food pantry,for the brown slush in the asparagus bag I’ve got this stapler.Good news, democracy. Good news, rhinos. I’ve got this stapler.Sometimes in the small blizzard above my desk two paperswill briefly separate, and there is joy. Sometimes eventhe wallpaper corners peel out into the room and I knowmy stapler isn’t what’s called for, but it works. It works for now.I watch the lightning batter the clocktower and I grip my stapler.I watch the blood moon rise. With it the dead are risingwith no particular desires as if they’ve exited the elevatoron the wrong floor. My father’s father wanders up to me,working a familiar hat in his bony hands. He spins it slowly.His mouth is a cave of light. I rise from my deskand my head is in the blizzard. My eyes go white.I want to take his hands but I’ve got this stapler.