This morning, before sunrise, I walkedalong the road, passingall the boarded-up buildings, the undressedtrees, the puddled street corners darkas your eyes the first time we spentin my bed—how, in that blue hour before daylight, we awoke to the moonhanging from the sky, almost full.That morning, we got caught in the rain,saw dozens of earthworms scatteredover the sidewalk, searching for dry land.You side-stepped around one, musedabout your childhood spent fishingwith family at the local lake, the memory of your father telling you that—if cut—worms can replace their lost parts. Back then, you us