Nature is a cold wave. You make it warmer. It’s too late for narrative in biology. You are a strand of light. You tell me your episodic dream –– snow on the beach, deep-sea creatures washed ashore and frothing, bioluminescent framework. Meaninglessness and aesthetic beauty, your echoing companions. Losing a long game of chess, due to impatience with arbitrary conventions. This library of forgotten shapes as an awkward instrument of creativity. Wasted combinations of words. Wasted letters. This semblance of form. You have been sleeping high in a willow. Fruit and pollen fall out of your pockets. The blue moonlight curls on your cheek. At first, I am worried that you will fall. But, once abstraction opens her mouth and the cellos loosen their lips and the cold wind flowers, I realize that this is only your dream.