In a dream you were chewing your fingers down to the knuckle. My fingers, missing nothing, seem a kind of bloom, fluid as they slide through my mouth and the mouths of others. Sometimes I still find your hair in the pages of my books. I remain a little boy who doesn't want to be fucked with and the placement of these hairs seems designed to upset me. My face slips off like skin from a boiled tomato. I can see you wearing antlers in the afterlife, sprinting through fields of quivering orchids. The rivers are clear enough to drink but when you fill a glass there is always a fist of hair hanging in the water.