I am to tell my friends about the Little People with their eyes all green + needy for their Firemen Daddies spent all their time looking out of windows/ locking eyes/ opening car doors/ stereos and cereal bowls. I can’t be held responsible for what’s been published in the Upanishads, creation myths and scripture—better send me up to that little coffee shop in Ireland where the rat-tailed people go and wonder/spell ubiquitous lessons out in the snow. I am tired—tell my patients there will be no more tomorrows. Tell them I am cold stranded in the produce section—lecturing to Thomas on the fuel pumps. Send my mother a letter of sincerity & stamped with all the times I went out looking for images. In mirrors I was hungry for the cool essence of weightless sight. Tell my father mime out my appearance live in perfect unison. I am no agent of response. Just an eggshell hard-on gawking at the puddle markers blessed in disguise.