He reaches in the cracks and trades form for the mayonnaise he wiped on his jeans earlier. He swaps grammar for saliva as it drips from his lips from drunken collisions with the other side. Elephant’s stomp his pages that are scattered with the letters and symbols he’s conscious of most of the time. The ghosts they haunt and sometimes he writes for them, other times he spends the afternoon shaving and plucking hairs that have grown in the wrong places. Prints of a journey long lost and eyes that see between moist legs into other worlds. The pages smell of sulfur or maybe that’s the egg salad that oozed from his sandwich yesterday. He was never any good at keeping it all in. Walking pacing thinking. Fingers on fragile necks and cummin too early from moon-y thoughts that would never be proper to mention out loud. And when he’s…