One day, you try to get up ... ’cause your own darkness tides at your feet. I’ve had high-water lines at my ankles, the dreams of cement shoes, and when I’m stuck, I can’t move. Dreams leave their spawn in the mixed-up sheets, but she’ll come home one day to change them, and unexpectedly she came home, telling me to get up, ’cause I hadn’t been moving. While the sun is free, she said, ‘Move!’ Marking my way, a spent cigarette on Boundary Street ... and how a snail trail can reveal a glint of silver, burning the retinas of your mind’s eye blind when you write for days, on the paper trails to midnight