Everyone should wake up today after having not slept. A cascade. A 3-D star stethoscope, barometer meting out the affections. What is the bag of trash scrawling on that wall? We are the faded lilies on the maroon(ed) carpet tree. Where is the nature in our natural habitat? He would pee red, dressed as a dog, in the shade if given time to consume enough beets, the ability to wait out daylight. We are waiting by a bus that is not going anyplace. Just CDG. Only Orly. I feel closer to the air after a bottle of rum. I want to go a few city blocks, but no one will carry me. He says it is not quite like that, set theory. He is measured out by her gaze. Pleeaasse come out, she says. The dancers are, unfortunately, not naked. When she tackles him in her small slipdress in the shadowy audience they skid a long way on the satin. Did you hear the ice cube melting? Was it sugar? Over and over, the block drifts off. We, too, carry ourselves into the dark. Stop at a streetcorner by a stand of bananas and beer. The trumpettist raises his horn and plays a few notes as he walks. We keep parallel. Our footsteps. Mine. Timing into the day. The statue there spies at us, lounging on the angled lawn. She has been waiting since 1864. Black smoke, boat stalled, the stranger who wants to shake my head as I enter the code into the door. This is what she means, in the case, speaking out from behind glass. There is no cure, after all.