An eel in the dark between rocks, something that waits in the liquid of unresolved or irresolvable worlds. We forget how the moon wants to kiss the ocean, but not the creatures under the surface. The hollowness of luggage in the closet’s highest shelf, where it holds everything that you bring to Argentina. Because you have changed, you will never be part of Argentina. Everything I’ve ever desired turns into a ghost or a fish or an allegory. I speak to my lunar selves, hoping to understand the pattern of failure. Sometimes the earth resisted his attempts, but sometimes he never even tried. The radioactive light of the relationship between what the world used to resemble and the person I used to know as myself. Like a penny on my tongue, the failure of continents to hold together is a matter of time. Argentina exists but the moon will never slip its tongue across the toothy mountains. The tangent’s red curtain. Behind it a wall and behind the wall, darkness. Replacing one part of the body at a time. A technology of failure––its energy is the fission of idealism and dirty clouds. Tired patterns that slosh at night. Being a quilt of missed opportunities. The process of eliminating flowers composed of fantasy and soil and time. Dusty centuries, antique shop of non-teleological things that sing about how he never saw Argentina.