Stranger, list the ways weather tilts the body forward, from the ice body to the body made of sand, the body called from mud. The way weather passes through cell by cell, along spine or synapse. How it runs down the body’s current, the long route past lightning or storm. Pay attention to the way a hand curls, how the tendons of the neck tighten, the skin’s memory of shock and spark. Because you are no stranger to blood or muscle, the bones that refuse to settle, the legs that kick when the body falls toward darkness and comes back to fall again. Stranger, sleep has its own technologies. It lets you walk through snow or walls or water. It lets you linger in that other country. Do you remember? It tugs like a dry wind, that day the body refused to lie down.