A deranged tourist plans to slash any paintings in a gold frame. It’s easy to do. The vulture lifts him to the other side of the abyss. And so the God of our fathers tumbles out of the sky. Given how much is going on, more than a few friends botch their latest suicide attempts. I pull the cushions off the couch, the books off the shelves, try to pull up the floorboards with my bare hands. Tomorrow, if not today, spring will follow, a small, wildly twitching snake between its legs.