This morning I woke up to find my copy of The Torches, a hard-to-find 1968 chapbook by James Tate, in a puddle of spilled water. Its beautiful red end pages bleeding all over my floor, and all over itself. There was blood everywhere. In the cracks in the floor. On my fingers. This made me sad, of course, but it also made me want to climb on the rooftop and howl at the fear in the trees. And so I did just that.