A spit might've been the after- thought from some god's mouth or a chunk of reclaimed rock, but not in your lifetime. If you remember what a coastline is, it's no longer a project. You can drive local though not on the freeway; and sing, though you never learned to whistle. You've kept ladyslipper orchids alive and brought a pilaea back from the edge of wilt, though you've never been to the Amazon. Have you calculated the ultimate question of life, the universe and everything? Hell no. You're the milk you sniff after the sell-by date and decide it should work fine for coffee; the wad of paper towels you re-use for wiping down a couple more counters. And you're always attuned to the twinge in the gut which lets you know you're not yet a lesson beyond loss, a grief beyond mourning. A speck of grit, a smart in the eye; a mouth for rounding a string of vowels at the moon.