There’s a word for sadness that dwells in the small of the back, the dell where you bury your chin. You mark the page where the animal comes down to drink from stale water. There’s a word for release born of grief, tempered with soapy musk in the creases. There is no gazelle. There’s a catalogue of frequently absent hours, a figure of speech for ellipsis that starts at the throat and sashays night continents, skirting veldt, dwelling eons in tundra where underbrush is just story, fabulous tinder. You rise several times to drink from the sink’s moony white, under-pipes moaning like vast mammals shimmying through canyons of sea ice, somewhere a ledger that measures the damp of the sheets, charts all things alluvial between first longing and loss, breviary of the sub-zero plains where I toss, insomniac, missing. There’s a phrase for absence gullied just short of reckoning, ghost-damaging your rise and falling weight inside me, there’s a verb for slow peril logged in a commonplace book dog-eared and oily—finger, finger. You mark the chapter where drowning mirages into understanding, the whole book stab-stitched or was it accordioned, a flaunt of unfolding and the pilgrim drinking from a dirty glass.