 You ask about desire, pre-AOL, miles from any neighbors with only a flickering black and white TV and stacks of National Geographic to go on. It's no surprise that I thought myself immune. Sure, I papered walls with Taylor Hansen's teen beat glory, bit lips and slick back seats, but not until New York, crossing Bowery, did I spot its first true messenger in a button-up, hair high and tight, boots gleaming. She didn't glance at my drop-jaw, walked on. It's still that rare. A phosphorescent flicker in the deep sea dark still stops me short. In our hallway mirror, you lift ties to the hollow of your throat. Decide. The lipstick lounge. One summer, there's an oxygen bar upstairs. Another skinheads behind the dumpster. Always pool tables. Dartboard felt giving way. Karaoke's on Friday. Mulleted owner sidling out from behind the bar, mic in hand. Light up anywhere. That law hasn't reached us. But cabs don't stop. So you want a hitch in a stranger's truck. Bum endless smokes. Maybe you were born here too. Beneath a sticky banquette. Took first steps to a quavering rendition of Galileo. And are still tethered. Heart, that stall with the bum lock, opens at a nudge. Pays for the next round. Careworn. The fallacy must have been cultivated during decades of dorm rooms. Apartments were brick-smolted molds. Bare minimum was boxed to keep. I'm perplexed by how silver tarnishes. Paint scrubs off ladles. Rags get dingier. What a shock to inhabit what I'd only sped past. Viewed from a train. Green smears. A blue stripe of river. And hard to trust what holds still. Hangs frames. Fills rooms with animal smell. Breathes into my hair all night. Object permanence. Yes, the red tail who swooped across our windshield didn't actually vanish into the gully. Circles still. And when the alarm wakes you, I trust that soft nest of curls will be safely conveyed to hover at a chalkboard. Fall in your eyes. But the calls keep getting closer. So straighten your tie. Hope we aren't followed again. And someone hears our voices before seeing you in the ladies' room. Maybe this is what mom meant by, I don't want your life to be harder. Driving, you didn't see that the hawk veered just in time. So wear it lightly. An asterisk pronged and golden crown. And this is the last one. Thank you. Perseid season. First, a new barber finds a gap in my hairline from the fall. Not a scar exactly. Just my skull holding its breath. Next, a burner left on. In its rotten cloud, I peer down the garbage disposal's throat. Then bless summer for windows left open. Next, just underfoot, a lobster-sized crawfish lifts a claw. Citals under rocks. These nights, the earth wrecks asteroids on her fontanelle. She shatters time to light. And when her wife runs a thumb along its milky trail, turns to kiss her wrist. Thank you.