The bike tires spin in the cold night. What does it matter if the backs of my hands are raw? The patches of ice are irrelevant. I push myself along.

There is some betrayal here, body or mind, a weakness I have yet to attribute. When I listen, I hear things decaying.

The mountain was large, coated in yellow. The mountain and I stood, en face, understanding each other. "You are where you belong," the mountain said. "I am without," said I.

Where are the cars? Silence.

Across the tables, they are eyes. She is a slipknot, he is fifty proof. I am the visitor, ready for tea.

Like a super-eight, grainy and jumpy, the moment plays. You are the shadow of glass, inside of me, I am steel. The words break across our faces and my throat constricts at the thought of you. Is it violence if you invite it in for a visit?

Is it violence, what the heart does to the mind, what the mind does to the form? When dialogue is stilled between the nerves and the impulses? Violence or indolence?

What is that moon? They've hung it askew. It's spilling its light, but it doesn't empty. As I see it, it's a ravished grapefruit, halved and sugared, but gutted.