I’ve got a thirst that would make the ocean proud. Thus began the first song, unclenched like a flag of red utopias released into the world. The boy was waiting in purple, his song filling up the ocean with coffee dripping through the syringe of sky. And then, and then, the other side of the story punches a hole in the wall, bleeds another quart. The boy, the girl. The ocean in the middle, traversed by lonely sex and melancholy. I left the bed open. The proverbial knife was leaning in from the plasticity of things, forgetting that fire is flower. And so the house becomes a flame, rounds itself out into flowers, reveals the story of what was not quite forgotten in the circuit’s closed spaces. We dwell in pointed time when not at the station where the harbor is cool and clear. I unmoved the first house and then placed it back into the center of the heart with its ruby and gold blossoms. I give him violets for his furs, yes, but also orange flowers for Saturday’s day shift.