Sometimes I lie down at night and the roar of the traffic outside melts into the sound of crickets, are they tree frogs, who cling to the sides of the apartment buildings outside, their gummy fingers like melting jelly beans. The homeless men rise up out of their boxes and sleeping bags on the steps of the church and begin shooting poison darts into the shadows. Puddles form in the corners and fern fiddles uncoil there, popping up through little heaps of trash and glittering glass. Fog rolls in and I can no longer see the ground from my window in the sky. I can only see the window of my neighbor, shining like a ghost house across the old lake. How can I sleep on a night like this? My heart thrills and I want to eat the hours like a sandwich measured in dripping bites.