With the boy from Ottowa dead in the curtains, the british woman in the bathtub moves us through all of Alsace. Bears on the right. Bears on the left. A circus on the hill. We find a light in the cobbled dark in Remiremont called L'Arddise and eat veal kidneys until our eyes roll back into our baby skulls. Then in the hills toward Mulhouse: Camille, Serge Gainsbourg and Jane Birkin, Boney M, and in the mountains of the Black Forest, a twisted road like half a shoestring in the gutter, the Beach Boys’ Surfin USA on blast. Do you think our car knows where the moon is? Do you think anybody has ever made love since the 1980’s? You build stork nests on your roof so the storks don’t shit everywhere, and you keep your windows open so they don’t drop babies all willy nilly. If we’re sentenced to death, it’ll be certain death in the Klapperstein. In the chateau above Kaysersberg, bellies dumb with Reisling, you floated in your boat in the moat, a guard to the dungeon’s exit. I wanted to shoot an arrow through the middle of some enemy, but it’s too late for everything about what I just said, but there is you and you and you and you to shoot through and I am I will I’m trying.