If I focus on the window, the trees move me south. Birch, acacia, willow, oak, these are not their names. One question is about how much can be willed into the world, whether this is a form of activism or a deadly distraction. Similarly, an electronic bird gathers data about rainforest animals far from my own, as the study population slowly diminishes. That is, I recently imagined living for 900 years. So much cruelty. When even ten years ago I could barely imagine crossing twenty. Autocorrect: bare image. I create in my mind each next square, but it is so much effort. The glass darkens with it. Dog using his tail as a brush erasing the path. That's wonderland, that's right now. I wished to become a starfish collecting human hair softly in the ocean, beautiful in my slow accumulation of toxins. Take them in, take them in, they lull me irregularly to sleep.

The eye is greedy, a faint glow at the edge of a bed. It is rising like the night sky. It cannot cease. When I removed my mask nothing looked like I'd been to the club. When I removed my mask I knew time was up, at least for me. Impossible venture until it happens. The balloon inflates into a meteor; California slides partially into the ocean. I wished for overlapping circles as representations of the parts of my life. I wished for an avatar to move through the world looking however I wished it too. It may have been granted, in some small part. The disaster happened to him. Will happen. I blamed my curtains for my insomnia, but then the fan on the ceiling shook itself loose, popped the window open and rain flooded in. A daffodil I seem to have dropped on my way home. How intensity fades or collects on a spinning blade.

A confession of my inadequacy: there is something I love I want to replicate but I fear I am succeeding. Circumscribed time balloons. As a car moves through it the fog condenses to rain. That is, the self in the thin statue at the entranceway, of bronzed copper. The sled as red metal in the snow. Again for hours along a highway, up against a truck, in brighter clouds and then encroaching frost. A feeling is different each time but that does not mean it is absent a form.

Bioaerosols diffuse in the air as a wall. It all heads toward me. I dream the ocean gives chase, and it does. The heat. I am trying to explain that I am as afraid as the pale girl screaming, every sound's small death. Where I put my hand, below my skin, I feel a pistachio shell. I wanted only to be possessed so I could truthfully say I was never close to anyone. I wanted to die but only in certain ways. This swinging rope, heavy with electricity, it wasn't on the list. The lichen turns right at the corner and covers the fountain. The petals turn left. Something is at the bottom, has filled without air.

Each exhibit was a different environment, even a branched sky, getting warmer. Three horses halt at a flash of lightning three siblings cannot feel. I do not press the button but expect the effect of it anyway. A horizontal line, and now it vanishes. I walk into a landscape, and suddenly there is a narrative like a cherry tree. There is a Philips head orchard, and everything grows. Your shadow joins me, a prismatic color. Can you point me can you point me can you point me can you point.

You named each grammatical move. Rewrite the word in cursive across the word. What color was the dream you sent me, chartreuse like the sky before a tornado? There was a hurricane and a tidal wave and a tornado. We emptied our drawers and boxes. A meteor, too, hung in the sky, coming closer. When the impression of a dinosaur's skin was discovered in the sand, I briefly believed in science. It was so close to the illustrations I had seen. But, I don't trust what can't critique its own methods. On the meteor everything happening here happens also. No, nothing's different. A comet is cold, like a mirror in the forest.

I am trying not to research anything consciously, but this is also an excuse. Baby animals filter through. Dana: "the earth is in pain and we can feel it." I worry we are talking about the impending ecological disaster instead of the current one. I worry we are talking about the impending ecological disaster instead of [   ]. Hello? The hello delay; I don't know to what this refers. It is perhaps a technological concept that is also a poem. I speak "microphone" and one appears. I tell myself I still have "muscle memory" for the instruments of my youth. This time, a glass rose. In one scholarly field, there's a mantra—the larger an edition, the fewer components that survive. Another mantra, of my grandmother's: what's very expensive should not bear a brand. But also, such a vacancy might indicate the opposite.

I cannot decide if I am also a new object. I do not think of myself as having good vision because I wear glasses; there is sensation in the eyes of irritation. And hunger. Is this an automatic process, how a dryer sheet collects each sultry mote to itself? Is this an unrestful mind sprawled on the ceiling of a kaleidoscopic home? There was nothing sexual there, sprawled on my back in the sun, not even when I encountered others' anxieties, naked. Yes, madame therapist, I have not been very kind. Declared like the unused air that gathers in the backyard. Our three years are almost up, another of those irate red deadlines I've internalized. An end that draws near is no more than a horizon I stave off with a log paddle into the pond. In the tea leaves a conflict arises. I dropped the candle you gave me into the water and, to my surprise, it sank.

My skull tunes to a certain crackle, convinces me that the oncoming force is water. Seeping feeling into the feet. Two books intertwined in ivy and beholden to a woman in a valley. The rain fell harder as the road rose; to be sure, I was afraid. There's a kind of suspension in a car on a highway, so that to stop feels a great affront. I knew I should have replaced the tires before the trip. No space travel, just different materials. She wrapped herself in Latex and became Esther Williams for the 21st century. We're becoming better actors, so we're beholden to redo everything we did before with our more efficient or precise technology. When I went to the bottom of the lake I found a door there, and it opened into a temple that rose into the sky.

For more information about this piece, see this issue's legend.

S. Brook Corfman is a poet in a turret in Pittsburgh and the author of METEORITES, a limited edition chapbook forthcoming from DoubleCross Press. This Lambda Literary Fellow's work has appeared or is forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Indiana Review, Muzzle, and Quarterly West (Best of the Net Nomination), among other places.

Foster Beach, Chicago

I learned about depth from the grass, rocks, and sand of Foster Beach, peering down the sheer edge of the man-made cliffside into the dirty water, looking down the shore to the Downtown skyline, swearing we could look out and see Indiana, or Michigan, there, that line, just there.