I also live in the state of New Mexico, the second sunniest state, and in Florida, the eighth. I live in three places but I don’t have three faces. This is not exactly a metaphor, yet I can see the metaphor coming at me, a satellite in the hard dark sky. Deputy Azevedo placed Dexter’s head in an evidence bag and took it out to his cruiser: the last words I read as I fell asleep last night. Here in Colorado everyone skis obsessively on Sunday. People break their legs and arms and sometimes their necks. I’m feeling a little Jersey today. Don’t get me talking about dogs or coffee. There are no real characters in this poem, only those who have escaped from Totawa. Lizzy Tish, for example. Lizzy will not be buried in Totowa nor Newark nor Hoboken. Her musical body will be laid to rest somewhere on the plains of Colorado. Personally, I both do and don’t believe in the efficacy of death and dying. Eggcream, potsy, stoop, stickball. These are some of the words a Jersey girl might remember while under the influence of the Colorado sun. Her musical body will be buried in Boulder Valley under the lid of a baby grand piano, her soul accompanied into the afterlife by a flashmob of multigenerational percussionists.