David Oprava		CRACKS are moving slowly, lazy worms edging sloth into threads of soft-splitting wood. I linger, a palm over their lines. It reminds me of your belly, after the kids were born. I would lather you under the sheets too tired to be changed. Memories of a tauter time before the fibers began unwinding, two remnants in bed; all elbows and needs poking, spent kindling.		THINGS taken for granted: light, air, night, your amorous bent. How rude to wake without day, nothing to fill lungs or carry songs, no place to hold musk in darkness, never paid nor bought, yet given away, lost without thought, more than mere things, the squandered essence of anything worth noticing.