We fly back to New York

on a Sunday. I reach out

of the plane window to

touch the sun with my hands

and melt into the

metal bones of my coach seat. Here,

I say, call me Icarus. Call me

fruit fly. To repeat this experience

I touch light bulbs and put my

hand on your shoulder. Over

the summer I tore open a black hole

and talked to the moon with my

window shut. I am no longer touching

suns. I bite up the inside of my mouth and get

strawberry-sick in the living room,

which is almost as good. Another way

to say this: You call and I pick up.