A triangle is not a triangle if its lines and points are collected and stacked and stored away in a pantry. Boxes of milk and dried pasta noodles and frozen vegetables aren’t fat and tears and phone lists yet. That man couldn’t hurt me if he was a pile of organs on the street, every part of him somehow present. Does Hurting have a place in the clouds? A body is just a piece too. The smallest counter, the most abrupt, the least sturdy, at least it knows what it is. The boxed pasta has yet to know how it will turn on me, has yet to meet its purpose down the drain-pipes.