I remember Itsy Bitsy up the water spout, but time has skipped over the roots of the story, how the spider reached for the sky, time and time again, a Sisyphus rip-off. Berries capped clouds in my dreams, and upon waking up, I would always be left wondering which needle was the cleanest to administer my medication. My nurse. The children ran through the street, covering it with their berries, making a spillway with their juvenile food habits. A flash from the sky came down upon the neighborhood, leaving only the ash and sweet tang of fruit. In the aftermath of the invention of the cure, only we walked in the alleyways, those brave of us enough to see life’s riddles. The egg curdled in the pan; I must have added too much milk. A sunset on metal curled around the baby rat. The cult circle lasted days, passing cactuses with bare hands, leaving each digit a drop of its blood. Conspiracies dislike commotion, or perhaps they like them. I’ve never been tangled up in conspiracies like thistles, poking my common sense. Saturn rejoices at the return of the elephants to the earth; she was never content to sit by and watch our destruction. The eclipse covered the sun, leaving the geranium alone in the darkness. The prince seized the eel in his grasp, only to realize that thorns covered its whole, and he drew quickly back and held his hand close to his chest.