Francine eats plumbs on a park bench after counting tree branches. Her heart, a trout. I think its trying to get out, she writes, And I trust him. Francine believes the last letter he wrote. Though a voice is only a shadow, or a tool. And a garden is a body. And a staircase a body. And a river off course, of course, is a body. One man drives sixty miles to watch stars fall. I eat plumbs on a park bench, she writes, and collect sweet things. I steal packets of honey from other people’s dinner parties. And light is a body. Francine couldn’t eat trout. Too many trying to get out. And a river is a body. There are many, she writes, within me. Francine tastes of a river when she wakes. Her body round, the sunset, a fish. Which trout was meant for his body, she thought, And his?