she told me some nonsense about a singer whose records had sucked for years. I said something about the moon and stars, and how close we were to being whores. still, this carried on, despite the gross interruptions of all her failing suitors. at the end of the glacier, the mighty Fraser swells and spills its fishes in the fields, flushes out the road with human bones. and I wish I had a tree fort. and now’s the only thing that’s real. it makes the book you wrote me into pale. the “then”s are the only things we feel, which makes us seem against the animals.