Tonight the palms were not tarantulas, but brushed against each other to make the sound of rain. You said you could like it here, but it is too flat, you can feel the ground moving. I agree, too flat. But the ground doesn’t move.

Darkness lulls a time of unrest. You trace nervous systems in repeated hush. Hair-pricks skin to skin; my arms alive with a thousand thorns. This reminds me of home. And cold. Ice over the dirty river. Dreams filled with ghosts I cannot place. You say it can never go away.

Teach me about anatomy—because your sleep smells thick and golden. I despised that smell until you and sleep and sheets. I want to know what gland that comes from so I can hold it like a silvery fish between cupped hands.

We set the clocks forward. 2:00 a.m. falls into place by the count of heartbeats. It reminds me of home. The smell of green rolling over bare shoulders; slighter than apparitions. I ask where this comes from. You hold a hand to my chest and mouth, “lungs.”