Chalkblanket, echo, sing me to sleep while I wake on the drawing room stair climbing one curtailment to the next. Where I started, where you've forgotten this, here, your bracelet, here, your low moan. The city was underground. We grew white as turnips, walked backwards into the phosphor of our torsos. Gasses formed milky lakes midair and would swirl if we turned fast enough in the absolute eye. There were other misunderstandings. I'll go wherever you. Send a' me somethin. Mornings I move my lips against my palm, remember the withers of a mule tethered under the surface, dustclouds rising off his shank. Tough ribboned loop of neck. In the dark our bodies repeated a movement that meant dawn, dotted dry toward a voluminous scape. We walked into the sun and hardened. Pale blazes. The train passing.