I tell myself that nothing can be perfect. I tell myself in nothing words that nothing words that can be perfect. I tell nothing myself nothing words. I tell myself ... words. Once a butterfly, then a burning hand, a memory of a burning hand. Everyone left me at eight years old, so I left, too, walking a road out of the city, toward a lake. Step one and two. A piano next to the mirror. My sister has beautiful red hair, and she plays piano. Nores are sometimes red. Near the piano, I tell my mother's hard drinking friend to leave the house. After Tennyson, I always hear the bells. The beauty of a liberty (bell). To cry with a beast, truly the only human present. Also lost in Japan, wandering where water goes. The truck knocks me down, and perhaps out. A baseball hits my head, and I remember waking up to the attention of worried faces. I tell them that nothing can be perfect. If my father lies full fathom five, will I see him again? He tends the fire that heats the meat that fills the belly. Until he dies, I never once think of my mother as fragile. Always distant, sometimes pretending not to hear me. I tell her nothing words.