Gone long, I wonder about piles. How they form. How long it takes without you. Where is the news, the wringing kudzu vines that spell out a curse from blocks away? I feel a small slice of you from here. Incomplete but sharp and penetrating. But listless. But a jingling tassel from your ankle. Begin here, you ask, more like a limb than a branch. What where. You finally say you want me. But I wasn't. Listening. Piles of scraps of thoughts of you. Of water of lakes. Of pieces but small and collaged. Where do we get together? Where do we stack our bodies in the fields and hide among the wreckage?