A geranium grows through the roof of your mouth until finally your fire expires in a house. This wouldn’t be so devastating, but it is or it isn’t. You’re saying so to the fire and rescue, and to the emergency room of mysterious shapes; you’re saying so much so you’re saying you’re in love with the price of an oil refinery. You feel like a pipeline clogged with the sound of its breath in your ear. And while you are nowhere to be found this year, you’re sure in your veins that your love is a virus. You’re sure if she knew it, she’d be tearing through the forest to liken the two of you to lichen, spreading over the carport and onto the porch, through the front door and into the entry, dining room, living room, kitchen counters, the century, children’s toys, your favorite leather chair, then up the back stairs toward the rock where you’re sleeping. Caught completely off guard, the bear trap is yours, and a miniature poodle prances over to observe you, to whisper in circles what a pity.