Something feels wrong in my sitting. I reach into my back pocket & find a four-page folded love letter from the government, printed on durable green paper. Legal tender, it says, & E Pluribus Unum. An eye levitates above a pyramid: In God we trust. It all sounds highly irregular. The signatures change from one page to the next, making it clear that these are different notes, bound on different journeys. Two are tattered, and one carries strange markings in purple ink. I am given to understand that desire touches everything it changes. My clothes too once belonged to strangers & were made by strangers — the same as my thoughts. And who knows what tongues these words have been on! I am reminded unaccountably of the last snow still with us on April Fool’s, disguised as soft black mounds under the highway overpass where the borough dumped it, slowly bleeding to death in that forty-year-old desert beside the river.