I am tired of your light upon the garagey floor. Bits and bits of hay and dust, this dreamy thing in sideways. I want your bike to ride out with, some kind of anniversary, a buffet. Dearest it is the first day of the year and we can not speak anymore. We’re like Dolittle and Lawrence in the dark with our own outlines and broken branches. The trace of the first day in every day, in these juniper trees on the side of the road. Go out on the veranda at dusk. You’ll see what I’m saying in heaps of wet trees, in loops of time, at dusk.