Ischemic Stroke Richard-Yves Sitoski I have come to love your beautiful confusions. So tumble, unroll yourself as a blanket on the grass. Let meadow dew make sense of imprecise precision. And when you can’t talk, sing: imprint your words on the twinkling leaves and let them fall in the yellow of your gentleness. I’ll rake them into lyrical piles, then sew them to your nightdress to rustle as you breathe, to sound the stumbling darkness and guide me, sure-footed only in my sleep.