It had been awhile since I made my bed blanket print down. The lines diced her torso like veal bound with baler's twine. I walked out shirtless, aimless into the old night beneath the frigid-stricken branches refusing to sway. The pads of my feet turned gravel from the fresh asphalt the city just laid beside me. The tar lines that patched the gaps glossy like kintsukuroi. Where workers in ash and oil gloves picked away at the new earth two weeks beside me. Too weak beside me, too weak alone. My movements were sparse wading through the dry swimming pool. My joints were like a shed lock trying different keys until one's ridges matched enough to move. Branches, no cars, just branches like arteries pumping night, but more like baler's twine.