My mother who wore perfume only on Sundays, my father who sat in the corner. Impressions and doorknobs, the road with dust cruddy boots from walking north, from waking. This is the story of falling from windowsills into streets, tattoos, fine talkative evenings at bars, the bulging pregnant nymph, the earth— Delilah, Delilah, won’t you please cut my hair? The laying around of course touches, long tightening knots of hair and thread. My mother used to say, my father used to say. You’ll get old. Footprints, now it’s melting in places, now it’s turning towards gray. She blondely laughed from the windowsill. I fell about a bottle. Covered in ashes by then. Birdlike days and nights with instruments and dreams staling the air between lampposts. I fell about a typewriter, sluggish lions and slow fingers, diamonds, grit, and copper. You will laugh You will laugh.