(with lines from Jesse Lee Kercheval) The sudden weight of skin and heart makes me start to cry—as if I'd spent a whole afternoon shucking wrappers, peeling rind after rind to get to the seed; or needling and needling a cavity in the chest. And still there was no end to it. I know this feeling from its many incarnations: scent- spilling tree in the night, foghorn whistle, shadow of a moth wing before the moth itself bangs on the screen. This late in life, I am still always trying to resist words like forlorn, with their long centuries of loss behind them, their habit of loosening whatever they were attached to or bound. Bound as in bond, as in a chemistry of atoms, their orbitals and shells able to hold only so much until the moment of breaking.