I love Jesus and Kenny, whoever Kenny is. I’m a genius at dressage and my favorite food is tripe. You’re taking a late-night bath and sending me a pic. We plan the future: your desk next to mine on the second-floor landing. Yours is neater. We pick tyrants: the Party or the Church. Mississippi is blessed. Balkan is an abandoned resort with phenomenal PR. I’m Lady Illyria standing before you, skirt up, and you, tongue-out, kneel before me. It’s how I colonize America. Days butt each other the way the calendar taught them. They push through the square frames and defenestrate. We go to a wedding at the Spanish ruins. Even the Spanish ruins in America are American. A geriatric band plays “Stayin Alive.” The stage is made of magnolia leaves. People dance like horses. We drive down the dark interstate of the tongue and run over a hare. The nightsky rips open. A buck knife flashes its stiff blade. We go to a wedding at the ruins. A geriatric band plays “Stayin Alive.” On the stage made of linden Tomaž Šalamun is horsing around. The morning that’s been years in the making arrives filled with sleep. They find you. In a tub. In a river. Underground. I love Jesus and Kenny, and other stallions, too. Your obit is a skit. Is horsehit. You’re taking a bath. Sending me a pic. I’m looking at your face. I touch my face. Pater noster, etc. I’m bent over—Šalamun is doing a pirouette, his shirt ripped open.