Thousand: Seven Hundred Fifty-Eight

a greased hippo on ice cubes. A dog with epaulets? A special dispensation of grapes? You’re looking at the stars from a speck of material gathered together from cosmic dust and dreams, crystals and the jitters, despair, nitrogen, and used ironing boards, and your mind swirls, blue sludge spiraling through a hot yellow syrup, the roses nodding nearby with wise genitals, the cat slinking through the unmown grass touched by the passion, and all the birdsong knitted into the hour a skein of relief from pain. And there, again, as though a motif in the wallpaper of the playroom, your