afghan raze they don't search for cash concealed by worn wood and sweat socks. they don't touch any of the valuable vintage guitars leaning against bookshelves and cd towers. they don't rifle through my writing or trip over too-tight treasure breathing heavy at the bottom of a jewelry box. this is what they steal: soft wool woven into still waves of blue and white. they carry it into the night like an empty casket. by the time it dawns on me that they're walking away with a pivotal part of my childhood in their hands, they've already fled too far to be found. there are better blankets in this house, but none with so many sepia-stained memories stitched into their skin. 250611 what's it to you? who go blather from