This April is colder than it must be and the tops of my fingers turn beet because my gloves are wide open. What is the concept of wrong. Blind. You without me haunts more than the others. Fanny throws a pin into the air to cut an opening for us. There is no want when the ghost of prescriptions leave us salty. People in public do not cry so lean forehead against wooden shelf at library where every book boasts love like greeting cards in February and crust from the corpse of this day and that bed and the moment my tongue became an enemy. Commit to awhile but no one loves a cumulus. And shelter and wicked and home and sharps. Live inside this, Fanny tells me. Because inside this is outside you. So I startle and I rage and rub up against my ribcage. That is the jail inside me, I point. Behind her lips, twig and bone. Fanny makes a nest out of her rust which she hauls into the wind. West of rain is tomorrow. Or sunlight or Wednesday or all alone or this makes sense.