The poppies put us to sleep all of summer. In the dismembered field, I dreamt without exhaling. The fall breeze blew back exposed flesh. Opiates loved the gashes on our fins. Take two imperfect creatures, make a muscle and half a flower out of their tissue. I sent you letters made of sweating skin. In my mind, a blue flame flared on the thumbprint of the enemy whose identity I did not know. It was you all along. How could you? How dare we? When the sky inhales, do the sad dreams quaff it down like they do us?