smells roughly of uneaten doughnuts, a favorite coat worn by another animal. It’s mackerel night where you live. And you live with your hands trying to shut those fish lips up. There’s a washroom in the right eye of every man you meet, with the toilet seat left up. To find your way back to God, you spread your buttocks in front of the mirror. Rain clouds willingly walk over you like bloated feet. You are ashamed of your egg sandwich and how you eat it with both hands. You carry baboushkas of objects you’ve desired in your hitchhiker bag. How quickly the wind gathers around the motionless elm as if returning to a place it has forgotten. The moon vomits its light into your eyes. In that designated portion of the lawn, dead vegetables and even deader star-nosed moles. You leave without switching off the radio. In your bed, an accountant sheds body hair while turning in his sleep. There’s no actual proof it can be love.