I could cloud-up a smoke signal, peel strange symbols out of the dark dome above us as if it were made of tinfoil, turn the stars magnetic so I could position them about as if the evening pitch were the front of my fridge.

I�m making myself dull and worn and itchy just thinking about anything at all. Consternation�s constellation with its fat, bullies face hanging its chin and cheek over me leaves the red-oh-red of blood on lips like wine. My rosary beads come packed twenty in a box. My prayers are whispered through a filter and then come out torched on the other side like the dreary dream of what I imagine to be the color of the bones of my hands.