I can’t differentiate dreams from the scrapping landscape, the fire escape. The fire escape where daisies sprout from sugar laboratories and small lines of memory. My body is one I don’t know the name of anymore. I love and love then—. Point over where the streetlamps are joyous motions of snapping fingers left out in the rain too long or not long enough. Cull hint and gather your shade palm and moan psalms. This isn’t a pain but a reaching. This isn’t a reaching but a root. Then blood. Then blood. Then shaking and repeating. Too much blood wilting down stones and bark and teeth. My teeth tell me to sermon crows. My teeth tell me to speak crow. O crow! O crow! O shadow not mine and shaking and peeling off my sad and tired! Lay your bloodied shadow down seaward; motion for the creeks to hang the red rosary light.