A string, stretched taut across a fret- board: but not so tightly that it breaks its wings. The air, suddenly reconstituted: now melting block of butter, now impenetable barrier. The glacier of a shoulder. The white upheaval of your thousand and one solitudes, dry retching in the grass. Now I understand how the eyes can cut, how a single word changes the inflection of a line into a curve. The finger, poised to skate against the lip of a glass; the sound it releases just ahead of the feather-fine crack.