The skyscraper’s amber-lit windows are beads on a vertical abacus reckoning the city’s insomnia, toting like photons up its sins. Holes in the dark’s architecture, rectangular doppelganger of prayer beads minus the turn and click of hope, windows are the color of other, density of hush. I circumnavigate the city for hours, recalling the scarecrow I’d confused with a crucifix, my mother’s bonsai heart. Balanced on the seat beside me is the bottle of eyebright you gave me, saying ‘an herb for both memory and eyes’. I took it, wondering: how can anything good for the memory also be good for the eyes? The taxi slows for a yellow—no, a red light. Color is the Babel of the eyes. For example, in Ojibwe there is a verb tense for what was going to happen but then didn’t. As in, I was going to ask the driver to start homeward, but then the light turned green. The city hides its horizon, conceals its vanishing point—fractal of a planet you cannot fall off of.