I stretch the shortcut days with soundsashaying to the wind’s largesse,humming to bee buzz and the hoots,my lonely intervals, the hour’s echo,something understood; maybethis world sorrow will leave offbut not yet, not here. I can’t stopcrying. It is so starched out here,low notes and woodsmoke,my old stutter returning.I can’t remember how to reachthe end of my own sentencesbecause they keep tuningand retuning the beginning senseas if I may never glide another toneinto the rhythm of my spineholding words up, grinding a design.Such surplus there is already.