you look so beautiful like that, your body still as a fisherman, talking out of the side of your face, they tell me. And I know they’re right. Everyone has something: you are a landscape painter, you make delicate, lightless pencil drawings of the coyote fence, of the ships you’ve seen. They make me feel surprised like when I wake up by hitting my forehead on the wall. I never plan waking like that, but it really makes me see how things are, and my whole day becomes active, as if I owned all the opals in the world. In the past, after I’ve struck my head on the wall like that, I find myself holding my breath all day. Next time, I’m going to try not to and if I don’t I’ll count it as a victory. I’ll never hold my breath again. I won’t do it when I drive over the railroad tracks that lead to the huge green terrarium of the mountain, won’t do it when I, thank god, go to bed tonight, or when I drive past the dog graveyard into a brick wall.