You sleep fretfully, stirring up the buttermilk air. It’s been through your lungs and mine.    You’re grasping and grasping, with hands plump and rosy. For hours you’d screamed, straining and messing my hair until exhausted.    I notice us in the windowpane and let my neck slacken and chin fall forward.    A mahogany…

Going everywhere on that little yellow bike. To the base of mountains and looking up at the boundary where snow becomes rain. Retreat just below treeline on account of distant thunder. On the downhill a pebble could mean disaster, but make s-turns: wide and coltish. The chain whines and grates and spits out flecks of…