Like someone stepping from a pair of dirty overalls, turned inside out on the bathroom floor, I step from my body. Words spill out, a pocketful of nearly, almost, close, rattling on the ground. I rise up and I am eye to eye with the ceramic insulators on the power lines. They glisten and I can see a fish-eye reflection of the stony landscape and worn blacktop. I touch the wire and the current passes through me. I float above the trees like children’s soap bubbles on a spring day. Everyone I love is below me. I see the tops of their heads as they go about their business. The school bus arrives and swallows my children. I am about to join everything, the way bubbles burst with a quiet pop, the tiny strands of soap vanishing into the air. There are souls around me pushing, pushing. There is the world below me, caught by surprise in a spring storm. There is the ocean embracing each rock. I look down and can see the inside of my skull, the graffiti of dreams, the rust of education. Should I come back and inhabit this vehicle? Under the sign at the Redemption Center people are returning their bottles, with the thin sour smell of beer and milk. Do we reuse the vessel or do we crush the can so that it becomes something else? Someone is embracing me with both arms, whispering, Come home, all is forgiven. Am I coming or going? Between this world and the next all I can tell you is this: Something is about to be born.