In order to be accosted I first sit alone in a large, empty cafeteria. I wear a distended bib, horrific with gore. Tiny workers mulch my ankles into cadmium, asbestos, and lead. The roof begins to leak. A stranger with talc white eyes adjudges me. He hails from a real place where children tug at the hem of his orange hunting jacket and the dishwasher breaks. He sees in my soul the wanton killing. The disease that overspills. Dead birds fall from the sky in Arkansas, Louisiana, and Wyoming. A former lover is pulpated by the enormous genitals of a movie star, a follower of Scientology. They have succeeded. The clock strikes four. The clock strikes four again. When I was young we never knew which father would show up, which father and which horse he’d resurrect with a flip of his mighty hand. The stranger has caught me like a fish. He holds the line with aplomb, a certain style and fixed tautness. The hook is a Mustad long shank hook, best used in the solicitation of freshwater sunfish. The stranger’s eyes riddle like macadems. His first question deals in axiomatics. Yes, I remember the dailiness, the vivisection of my lover with abstractions. The stranger’s left nipple is aslant and pierced with gray hairs. I am without a social media device. His second question is primarily a logistical one. The hook feels as though it is inventing a new vesicle, that is to say, a new holiness, a permanent seam. When I was young, I loved dry and cloudy days, regardless of temperature, regardless of the toil. The stranger abides. A dead swallow sleeps in my brain. An angel sleeps next to the dead swallow. My dead uncle Adolphus Clementine Medina sleeps next to the angel. I praise in my mind all allegiances. In order to be accosted I first sit alone in a large, empty cafeteria.