Thus heartache, thus vacuum, thus bonanza. I need rain, wine, and a red candle before I will open my skull, seek the forest-city light within. All spirits, as we know, dem and liberty upon summoning. When denied, they ask forgiveness. The baby laughed through the funeral—the pale sermon, cup upon cup of Bedouin coffee, men looking for spent blanks in the cemetery grass after the military service. Rain congregates beneath our house, wondering if someday it might float. Cark: Lake Ontario lies between us—a walleye swallows a hummingbird and migrates west. The last pitted olive in the jar held a pit. What is this other than luck? The hollow sleeves of the new jacket hanging from the back of the bathroom door are starting to freak me out. Red and green striped curtains open on morning above the Cumberland River: magpie leaps from the sill, flash of pigeon flock through green on the other side, complimentary breakfast humming to itself in an otherwise empty room. Earth sans moon would be a waterless, haunted imposter, the vernacular of woman, man, and dog failing to materialize.