Everything in the beginning is the same. Clouds let us look at the sun. Words let us watch a man about to be killed. The eye-hollows of his skull see home. When they stone him, he knows what a stone is—each word, a stone: The hole of his nose as dark as the door I pass through. I wander the halls numerously. He’s no longer my grandfather in weight. Among old bodies piled high, they aim. Living can tranquilize you.