Over and over, you climb the shipping container beside the school and jump off. You imagine your shins bursting into little pebbles and dust. Over and over, you shoot ball bearings into the squirrel’s head, but the squirrel won’t die at every rise of southern California, bouncing through the countryside between the urban array. Over and over, the same song plays. Laughing hard from your gut as the couple argues and the girl cries knowing the laughter is awful; is a mistake. Over and over, you have a dream that the sky of Louisiana is a mirror and you see in the sky the earth concave, the features transformed, the lights of the oil platforms all beholden small and distant as the reflection disintegrates day by day. What’s behind the mirror is another mirror, a bathroom mirror, a yellow mirror, your face. You hold up fingers before your eyes. You remember your awful jokes. Conversations in crowds. Lines outside doors. Chord grass and snakes. Naked in rivers, hidden behind dumpsters. The dried bones of the interstate. The hands that will listen and the hands that will work. The hands that will listen as the same song plays.