We live in loose leaf pamphlets inside the letters of no alphabet and fall asleep on a thin moon strung to the lid of a mason jar. I crouch in my own mouth and stare at red traffic lights through the unflossed gaps between my teeth. My cheeks sucked in as I nap beneath my tongue. Loud knocks outside: I swallow myself. Leave the package at the door. In an unlit cave a thin cry is delivered.