It isn’t inviting, limiting this in I’s. I sit, I think, is it fitting? “Knitting in bright lights is insipid!” I insist. Finding things with I’s is inhibiting. I find I’m wishing fish into swimming fits. Writing strings. I’m sighting sniffling pigs, flicking filth. I’m mimicking birds singing. I’m whistling with instinct. I’m miming living things. It fits within limits. This is skimpish lit.