Interpolations.

Woke up from a strange dream… standing outside a bar, drinking whiskey with P and an ex that was not entirely an ex and the whole question of me and P hovering in the air like static electricity but also a fore-shadow, or the forearm of a shadow extending from that night when his tool-belt would wind up in my trunk and force me to meet up with him in order to return the objects — one of which was a hammer — and all the wet fires between that moment and this morning, when “c’mere” still feels like the most earnest contraction ever spoken. A wheel of c’mere-spokes — and the drill of the daily descending . . .