So curious to hear more about where you are, they say. Where leaves have settled near the iron- trimmed door and my toes ease in the inky tundra. A slice into the longest loop reveals veins, a meadow where I pull at roots. Quarter then chop the living parts and leave beneath the thunder. At the edge of the desert you look through ears and hear the punctured soil converting the atmosphere. Rain tracing tongue. Wetness in the shade, a certain shade, with old smoke and a ghostly smile. There’s a person who sits in a patch of daisies. And all of the tall grasses have gone. Last year there were cabinets, small caves that channeled moonlight. Don’t eat with your mouth open, they say. We’ve collected what we could, all of the odd-lit things, and sent them through with sand and water collapsing on a narrow form.