The body is a network of rivers connected by slow-moving barges, which are the pellets we feel at unexpected love: the neighborhood drunk who yesterday I saw dragging a house-size blue tarp down the middle of the street, a Bud Ice in his free hand. He is always smiling, though I have been instructed to feel sorry for him. The birds who always know exactly when it’s time to leave and their explosion off the ground or from trees, rising toward the surface of the lungs. The story of Bluebeard, just the memory of the story. Here right now with the church across the street and the impossibly beautiful teenagers walking by it. Elsewhere, mountains.