Don't lose the thread! Writing through afternoon until I'm bleary-eyed, unsure of whether what I'm saying is clear, or if what I'm asking for is appropriate still. There are always all these remainders. You and your fucking contracts. Four a.m., struggling out of bed, thinking of the horses. A dream of you giving me head that is new somehow, as if the whole past of us had disappeared and was reborn, a new being in the same clothes. Blushing maples. The tiny forsythia near the sidewalk everybody trails their fingers on as they pass. Slow-rolling pickups going down Main Street. The mailbox leans as if thinking or getting ready to empty itself. Would you disrupt the order of the world if you could? In a dream, the poems write me, and this is not a dream.