In the shower I smell you on my skin as soon as the water hits my body. A mist rises and lifts the secrets you left in my underbrush. I’m taking pictures of your hands and developing them on a paper made of ash. This is how we’ll recognize each other in the dark. There’s a rattle at the door. My wife stumbles in and vomits in the bowl. There’s still something left to be said. It skipped town though. Weeks ago. Tied to the back of a blind dog. She rocks on the floor. Her legs stacked sloppily on top of each other. Her panties riding up one side of her ass. There’s a bruise too. I start thinking about surfactants and ways of misleading the government about the color of my eyes. Somewhere deep down there the sharks are circling each other. They’re waiting for the weight of the ocean to produce the slightest tear in their skin. It’s made up of tiny teeth. I draw the curtain. She’s left her panties in a wet ball in the sink. It’s October. Last night I took my friend to the emergency room. He had cut up his hands and face with a broken bottle. He takes pills that take away his feelings but leave him with a desire to steal and hurt himself. The Nurse who took his belongings at the psychiatric ward said she liked the way I smelled. My wife has a date tonight. I cut up some onions to get breakfast started. You’re in another city. I’m never going to let you read this poem. Not even the nice bits. This poem’s for Neptune. Not even he knows what to do next.