He tells me to move

in my sleep and I do. The better to hulk about in the snow, a small white dog drawing the leash—what a firm world we have, clapping, and the radio, spinning like snow all over the field. What I look like tinctured, flush with pulp, how that woman ate a pear on the bus. Like someone else with a white dress on and you are someone too tonight. The white mouth of mouse, his teeth and things, and moths strung about out lightness, then a paper boy bangs his hat on the stoop. This dark under a dress. This.