Surely there is some charm to rolling bread into small resilient balls, casting them off the fingertips to squawking ducks. Often, I am swamped by incredible pleasure, by the wild connection a thing makes between my thumb and finger, as though desperately alive in some galvanic dance. Much of the vocabulary consists of words hidden behind logograms, indicative of first things, the need and desire to speak, to bring back the body. The dead do not require wisdom of us. The word stems are clearly uncertain.
Questions remain unanswered.
The void offers utterance. Impenetrable silence is to be thanked, for kindest permission, for deepest gratitude. We bow to time's acrid telling muteness. Layers are many. We seek another's breath, mother to language, sound as resurrection.