Motion, I realize, is a killer. But I move from one place to the next, try to rest, and then move some more. I keep a space for my poems clear. I exhaust, vacate. I finish up with one thing so that I may move onto another, one burden layered on top of the next, one weight on top of the same, my body on top of the threat of hitting a wall in a dream. In another, I ride on a boat, speeding across a brown lake, pulling up mud by hand as we cruise through the water. I try to explain to the passengers that the earth below the water is rich and clear – and I exemplify by pulling out of the deep, a scoop of mud, some of it floating like oil on the surface – You can use it on your skin, I tell the passengers as I smear some on my face.