Things that scare me include car dealerships at night and the fact that snow cannot live inside my mouth. Boom. That’s it. Once on Belchertown Rd. I saw a ten foot soldier with a deer rifle and a torn jerkin walk out of 1789 and into the woods. He left because he knows I will protect you. You don’t need to keep a grill skewer in the soap dish. The world is something I will gather for you and brush off like I’m cleaning a dryer filter. Let’s plant apple trees in the radio. Keep one suitcase full of bees. Listen, I like you so much that I want to steal your jokes. Though you are a hand and I am a boat, we smell like dancing. We make a new health. Dancing invented us. Dancing is just putting yourself on inside out. When you are near me, I feel as if I have caught the only bus of the day somewhere in New Mexico and you are the spy plane above us and the gingerbread factory that the driver won’t stop talking about. Except no, wait, that’s you, sitting in the aisle with your boots off. You bite my shoulder. You have a smoothie mustache. It is because your name does so much to me that I call you many things. You ask me why I’m not asleep yet. I forgot how to get there. For some reason I just hold you and float.