Hunting the words all morning, I look up in time to see the rain stop falling. These are the terms: an alarm at daybreak, warm tea in the belly, and an attention tuned to the spatial depths between clouds. When the archive mutates into a labyrinth, enjoy yourself. My occupations: moonlight, bread crumbs, memories of strings cutting my fingers, your hiccupping laughter, the pine-dark orchestrations of late summer storm fronts. Does smiling at a crude statement implicate you? Eating the soul of a bird: years of wind, harvests of nothing but dust, then a glowing eye that lasts one night, expands into a person by morning. They watched the black dog run after them from the camp, both disappearing as they gained speed. Slow down and look at yourself—you wish only to dice a green apple but the blade in your hand threatens a million ideas at once and now you see the sun is going down, taking all of the day’s murders with it. The path climbs from here and does not double back—a bridge, then a dogleg, and then: home.