A cow reminds me of my dog and I’m home again, not still weightless in the train car, reading post-it notes you left in a folder. Yellow scatters on the dirty floor like some mad slow snow, it shifts around. I’m undone by the distance, by conversations with strangers, talk starts always with where are you headed or where have you been. No one really listens. Their story always better, judged by main characters who want nothing to do with what’s outside strict narrative of here to there, life to death, and don’t forget babies. I want to tell them about you, how you hold me down, how I hold you down, how you make me forget. I want to tell them what love is. A man from Chicago tells me I’ll want babies, tells me I’m ripe for babies, stares me down like he could put a baby right in my lap. Grey wheat fields like sheets of corrugated tin, or water washed over your forehead. Shutter release and regret, but the release stays open all the time. Too much light will end in darkness. Process stopped; process sped up again. I want every picture where we didn’t smile.