I still saw you. I was walking fast as I could past the window where you played pool, chalking up fancy with one foot, a finger. You needed a haircut, a new shirt, a shave. I’m sure you smelled of Ivory, that the curl you cut from my head still resides in the jar of bones and teeth. You took me to your empty flat, as an explorer, I’m afraid of basements. Cobweb corners, Cream City bricks, we both thought of roller skates. Now, your new home is just boxes and borrowed guitars. In daylight you touch the corner of my eye, “It’s yellow there.” I lick my finger, rub. “What is it?” “It’s life,” you say. The line on your lip has deepened, hard wintered. I know why you wake up so early, Before crows scream for breakfast, Lake Michigan’s light trusting, blue… I am still making my bed as you punch out for the day. Your morning is my dreamtime, pillows, a tissue, a deep breath.