You’re gathering the baby’s things, disturbed all day by your previous night’s dream. You remember someone pursuing you down crooked streets. You wish you could remember who. You ask a relative stranger what it means. Start from the premise that everything is broken.

Alone with your thoughts, open windows can be hazardous. Orphaned parents dozing in wheelchairs along the boardwalk turn like sunflowers to face the sun, the silence at fault and the remaining light oppressed by the presence of what can’t be mended.

The hammer falls on an empty chamber, the lethal injection misses the vein. Nothing comes easy after dark. Although the body heals, memory never recovers. Pieces of the gallows sold for a dollar a pound. Until we know why, we won’t know what happened. The man in the window insists that truth is a moving target. The bird on his chest is bleeding, too.