Billows of sheets and things, a spore’s rusty stump. Making me eat some things, narrow hungry hump. I have a dear whose money is wind and humming. Rip me from this very vine. Petrichor. Dangle me in rain. There is no time for time, only when punctuations circle ends like prey. But wait a moment. I was addressing the billows, under which a lissome arm is nestled between my knees. He is sleeping. I am sleeping. No—that’s not right. I am under undone tulle, hardly unconscious, even less young. This arm: a merchant of heat and string. It is only a sheet. Filaments so insouciant. It is very rude. But do not think I don’t suppose all the rickshaws running. I considered it. Remember the humming? No one loves me. So on with spore-burst and rusting. On with the eye-blink and dusting. On with the mellow sun, the lonesome earth, and the dying sea. Take your song and eat it. I am woebegone.