A bluebird asks if I’ve ever been icefishing and suddenly I’m recounting my entire history with water to the choir in the shade tree. I don’t know anything about myself other than this pear I’m eating. Even with my fast metabolism I can’t keep up with all these clouds. And the nerve of you and you and you, sketched, haloed, crammed and blocking the light half-loosed through my doorway. Watch me self all night—think that you can will me to die? Enough houseguests to spill out the windows. I swear I can’t hear myself breathing. I can hear a door, opening below.