The sleep of a dog who carries in his body a history of being beaten. Gazing at icicles all afternoon, sunlight streaming, glints of purple and green, yellow and red, hints that royalty is how one sees not what one sees. Happiness is the absence of secrets. At last “beyond the body” clarifies and one makes peace with shoelessness and blowjobs, whiskey shots and insomnia. Turtles have no word for goodbye. Is it okay to stumble near the end? Maybe kneel less but pray more? I draw close to Chrisoula at three a.m., letting our shoulders touch, making of our bodies a tiny functional oneness, like the joint in a hummingbird’s wing. She sighs and turns into me, murmuring the answer. What was it I was saying again?