As I read this text I was drinking the edge of my salad from the lip of the dish. I can’t just paste in what you said, but I can paste in my image, how the note about how reading it reminded you of a phone call we had gives me my own phone call. You were in Kentucky, bushes overgrown onto sidewalks in the instant I was crossing a median on N Lombard, played with a tennis ball I found there then left in the vestibule of a school off one side, grasses grown up and shunting aside the concrete of my sidewalk, redefining it into a poured intrusion. The architecture of streets many of which have almost indiscernibly similar names makes it easier to transpose, on the side of the Louisville highway doing pushups in the sun then onto the next gridded zone and what makes a portal—a symbol on your arm, right—is it just another word for opening? Your tattoo glints like a sweaty jewel hanging in my window, when we swing it light hits it hits the wall in rainbows, oscillating thresholds. What we said is the part I’m less allowed to remember but I wore a yellow rainjacket, just in case, and told a story, pictured the grass grown up in your sidewalk under my feet crossing pavement.