Think of your mother and think of your father. What can you have against chaos that chaos can’t have against you? A river of breath, a valley of snakes, the shrill note of a hawk hunting on Christmas morning (no rest), indelible words we speak into one another’s eyes before sleep: the clockwork we feed these images to to keep the ticks and tocks distinct. A footprint made of ice turns your night backwards on itself, proves that the sun’s setting is perhaps merely just another occasion for reality. A part of home: year-old applewood ashes in the firepit’s belly. The word quotidian finds a road and walks it—sharp trees, the circling of birds, and a sense that one has ventured here before. I saw it coming. Don’t think for an instant that the river’s core won’t turn on you. The truth that no one cares is a raw spot under the saddle, a finger aimed at itself in a mirror, the angel that tears your house down brick by brick only to rebuild it by morning. The final month: drake goldeneyes bending their heads back in courtship display near perilous rocks.