My scalp flakes away. A hair or two, here or there. I rub my nipples and petals fall. I hack up a cough, a saint with his orb. Juddering down crooked streets, the entrails of thought, I’m a snow machine. I play with myself—just dust in the sunlight. Wigs, false teeth, a few phantom limbs. Really, who can tell all their demons apart? Now hovering over the grass: honeybees, zeppelins.