How long a minute lasts. Neon lights make buildings shimmer like secular revelations. Your call tears me from my past into your present. You ran till your feet sang on the rain-dark pavement, till you outpaced rhythm and thunder. All the dehumidifiers are on in the house. No fireplaces. Some seas are colder than others, some bodies warmer. I am drinking Iron-Buddha: two teabags waiting for their time to blossom. It is too Spring here for my own good; too much green in the salad bowl. Too many stories of salvation; earlier, blue beyond belief. The moon is lying on its back in my dreams. What a smile looks like. A toothbrush touches my lips. Steamed Asian sea bass for dinner, with white rice. Polar bears have black skin. Victoria Harbor was named after your Queen. How many hearts in a deck of cards shuffled across two continents? I am catching a plane again tonight, thinking about the map on your neck. Roaming.