Francine doesn’t believe in the impossibility of everything. Francine writes letters, though she still loves him. Francine believes her heart will not swallow the stone. Francine believes he sleeps with fistfuls of her hair. Francine doesn’t believe in her eyelids or that her heart is carried within his branches. Forgive her. She writes, I’m going to borrow the sea of mercy. Francine believes in Saint Gabriel. She writes, However I comb my hair, stones fall out. The train was late. Francine believes her legs are flutes outside her window. Branches. Francine writes letters to him made of stone. She writes, Your clothes, my painting, our lamps. I’m going to cut my hair. Francine sees a sad procession in the possibility of everything, though she still loves him.