“Have you seen this man?” I look in the mirror. I haven’t seen him. I excuse myself. Splinters — I see the guitar in mid-swing — Mainsails billow in the lobes behind my eyes — Mandolins shimmer as though mountain streams — I wince. I hold a shiver in. The bus comes now. I hear the sound of headlights in puddles. I see a woman with an umbrella shield her dog. Black on gray — Every phase of the moon shimmers in the cold glass. I sigh. I open my journal. Madness. Rain shadows streak through ink. Clair de Lune. Clove smoke on my fingers. An ashtray on a balcony long ago. Your rings are rough in my hand — Fluorescent supermarket lights. I never see you here. Cadavers on ice. They’re playing Handel. I walk through a slow and confusing dream. My hands are cold and bloodless. I watch the severed heads and neither of us blink.