When we met, you said you liked The Decemberists and a Chilean novelist named Roberto Bolano. This is how I remember you. In barely legible poetry written on postcards of Paul Klees that hang somewhere in Zurich. O, the colors defy names. Imaginary Alps. The pause that tells between church bells. On the dock with your foot dipped in the Kapuas River. Crying in the movies. Love fodder. The Queen of Spain sits in her castle 52 floors above Chicago dining on novels and sad songs. She will not go back. She’s not going back. She will never go back. But I will light the candle to blur distinction between light and shadow for she who hears the cries of the world. Je est un autre. The glaciers are melting; we were never not ocean. For what else a howling beast if not to kiss away? I will ask again tomorrow after I catch a train to your kingdom.