There was a game played when we were younger:
one closed her eyes and the other poised

a finger, slowly swirled in the air the shape
of a letter an inch from her forehead.

Is this what they mean when they ask
whether there is a language that exists

before the opening of language? The body’s page
rising to the smallest hint of wind or disturbance,

the agony of not knowing what is there in its
ambit: if blow, if caress, if nothingness.

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