Because the body blames a flock of words for leaving in the mumbling of dawn the bike of bone that moves the sky across a precipice of water says, ‘no thank you.’ Until a stream of arrows makes a noise between the bones of a lonely neutron that refused to be called a body. There isn’t a dream for me to forget in the failure of a map that reveals the difficulty of telling time to a disappearance staring at an empty portrait. Because the body misses a game of cards whose rules depend upon the weather unbeknownst to those who wait forever with their hands inside their pockets whistling a tune from television. A singing body says, ‘I love you,’ until the blankets of poetry are gathered in a pile that nestles down upon the floor as if it were a sickly house-pet. There isn’t a dream for me to forget in the alley and the breeze faltering and suffocated in the beginning in the drafty attic, in the end of ending.