No tides in the Nile . Trick of light. Demons on high wires. The electricity of summer and champagne. The figments of spiders. Children in webs. Someone said the sky was falling and we looked down to see what we could collect. By next year we will lose our breath and require ventilation. More holes. Our bodies will fit together like the floorboards of an abandoned house. Like flesh between the teeth of a zipper. Half-dead houseplants will turn from the sun—proud and dignified. We already check the weather by the hour and stick our heads out the window in disapproval. Your mouth is chorus—much louder than shatter of earth and the industry of forgetting. Seek apology in the stoic curves of nature. In a stomach soured by history. Fires burn with their volition. In chrome blue highlights. That smile is no smirk. The vanguard is a tarot card left unturned.