When I jump onto the garden wall I do it metaphorically, which is to say in a video game. Purple lights move across the staircase and wrap around my throat.
This afternoon, I miss fall with my tomato plants.
Copper, two tablespoons of water.
I’ve put out ice and it splinters when the president enters my garden.
In three dimensions I seem to be beautiful; in four, a hammered cylinder.
He and I have met before, perhaps in a terminal, and I spread my fingers like a deck of cards. A rabbit appears in the garden, a rabbit made of intersecting visual planes.
I rotate the camera to the right and see my reflection.
To the left, a shoebox.
I try to open it, but, being a rabbit, it remains closed to me.