The ear of corn in my back pocket was too cold to eat. I sat, with my legs in a pretzel, under an umbrella taped onto a rock with a pinecone punched into it. It was Wednesday & I drank blueberry milk that made my tongue velvet You must have understood the smoke your bomb left, the color of my skin was altered, you smeared ink on the folds of my brain, I remember; there were train tracks 10 feet from a birch tree. I left coins, begging they would flatten like tulips in a notebook. Ferns grew around my shoulders; you spilled gasoline, collected from used car lots, into brown flecks on my nails. It wasn’t the color of your eyes; you were the best tenant in the birdhouse.