ought jack martin There ought to be something. Some nuance or subterfuge, a wind beneath the skin, like the blood only deeper, a red happiness that lasts longer than sunset, or the eternal dawn, but more obvious, untucking the blue until we understand what cannot be understood, but seen, maybe wept or laughed, maybe breathed, not staying in one place, like a fact, but evolving through us into something aesthetic or larger, half-lidded sunset that makes us all worthwhile, a final apology. This world is hard. Among the hands, the things we’ve built and been, the lost and found, or a laugh, enough, or the realization, that it ought.