a

They wore out the a in the letterpress case only after a few thousand hits under the inked rollers, pulling the crank, turning the giant wheel. Must have been 1820. Thereabouts. Wanderer, glory-run of letters:thereabouts. Hunger took its due from the belly of the a. So? All kept reading it as a— those who could read — and anyway, a bite out of that apple proves our kind mortal. Rare good paper into page until most everything about the a was shot. Practically prayer, humility, a great foreboding not just bare-bones frugal. Simple aaaa from that a— First letter loved, to hear it ache and fill even at half breath. Look, it’s standard. No one but a divine being or two makes perfect copy. Real case in point: my now and again body so poorly echoed off my mother, my father out of a broken skull simmering in a bog, BC probably, long before AD pretended anything in order. Earlier, our whole dark hole of a planet copied unto itself via earthquake, flood, star shard, raging molten ball in the middle, some big bang’s idea of a flawed, proper start. For a while there, the tiny a wounded. What it does. Doing, to herald every human sentence.