The day was its own warning. I was thinking of his head on a plate in my lap. I was thinking of its soft loops of curls, fine as the hair punched into plastic doll skulls. I felt strange & electric & so did the sky, & when I looked out of the window, it looked back with green. There were clouds & clouds’ low stomachs lined silver. There was a room in which I stood alone. When the squall line quickened, the room became aching. The room became wool. No god was there.