Home again with all the tiny mirrors struggling for breath on the wall. Last night: moths overhead, thick snake dead at my feet. I’m the one with the wedge at my side, the one to rid the house of the ogre, encroaching. Last night I stole your winter coat (plaid, denim) from the woodpile then ran in bright sun to bury it in a swampy gully. I woke with a start, having killed something mild and not worthwhile, dismayed I did not first rummage the pockets for something I might like for myself.