Say creation story in fits and starts.  Say darkness mountain deep.  Can I barter sunsets, refracted light, my hands as slivered moon?  A low red pulse I pretend is a passing planet.  Flip my heart over.  Hand wash only.  Dry on low heat.  May mistake clotheslines for veins.  May be naïve.  May be lovesick.  A stethoscope dangles nearby.  Threatens my heart with its own music.  Hurries it along before starlings and wasps.  What is spring?  When do I exhale these damp blooms?  Glacial melt pools, refreezes at my feet.  The baby river needs a nudge and advice.  First, don’t make promises.  Second, promise I will be taken all at once.  Before phones, there are phone booths.  Rain of quarters, this country’s manna.  Mom, Dad: the last time I call will also be the first.