Night. Night sly in blinked coffee. Night. Sippy cup of night-path darkness culminates in song itching out over the house tremendous. Tremendous withstanding. A crunched metal, mottled blue of bald paint, settling haunches. The truth. The truth of a dream. Mathematics, truth of a pattering sleepwalker, a missed call. A hidden cancer. The good enough house, a might-lie mouth. The cicada’s shell, it’s heady croak door to a dad-planted garden. I shove up from that, I hoax. Adults, keep. Children if only the mind. And abhorrence of thank-you, of avoidance and touch. Of telling the truth. The truth in relation to reason. Reason hung like a yard bee-cloud drift amber over some earlier sound preserved, precise in cloud. Awoke each morning’s earthliest sound that shakes us bald from mother’s thigh, dark culminates in catalogue sound, a cat’s pink tongue then sand. A black expanse by the hand of Mars. To a blacker ocean mirage. The crick I forded. The crick on foot, call not received. The hand I moved from your knee. The basil smell of your hair. Patch technology to the sun, let Kara Thrace vanish. Let bird light on the roof, cream- chested bird, sandpaper roof. Like a tunnel curtain, a cigarette descent from accident. Night’s halftone tries not to do much then disappears, moves a hand from the knee I call sound honesty, bright copper bikes on gravel little threads in driftwood hard to trace. Hollow and long, a braced wild. A disappearance. A cover-up covered patio. I’d win and win again. I’d make up rules to win. A bee, a boy at my window, a book. Limping road, a vanished blinking black expanse in cream. My mottled shirt mother- water. My night self’s mind full, a time lack, lacustrine. No cross-outs my huggable jigsaw, my warning marquee, my final transaction is moved by the hand of an elder, I lap her, I believe what’s true: about a cloud of bees by the light of watchers with cameras behind shut windows, they follow their queen and nobody steps into the wrong cloud.