June: I was crossing the Lake-Marshall bridge one night—window down, sad Drake song bouncing off concrete, engine thrum, siren in the distance—and I experienced myself as a kind of choir. Layered voices, strophe and antistrophe. Vacancy and thickness, tug-of-war. Lack, slack, burn. As the galaxies cherried overhead, the supine waters of the Mississippi crossed some stories below, another story ribboning beneath our own. Somewhere, I realized, another me was going down on a guy in a bar bathroom. Drinking a glass of milk and getting into bed. Breaking a window and stealing an iPhone. Somewhere, bellies ache. Anodyne clouds meet. Somewhere, powder. Somewhere, the past walks into those Mississippi waters, gown pooling at their waist, and bows down.