From Breugel to Arca, I miss you. I messaged you, I miss you. U2. I met you. You don’t remember, I bet you. Imo, IOU. New Nunu, like a tremor, and all screws are loosed around you. In the kitchen, a shelf comes crashing down. In the bathroom, the shower spurts a cold, thin dribble. In the bedroom, at night, under the covers, lights out; a voice fills you head. You look in the closet, you look under the bed. I can hear you. I can’t see you. I’ll let you. Get up. I don’t want to. So, then, close your eyes. What do you see? Black sand, oily seas, and bodies all around me.
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