The words like a string of pearls unfurl beneath fingertips, a convoluted line. Translucent, aquamarine, smooth as skeins of skin, brittle as a burnt Bible, metallic as the belly of a fish. Whatever I regard becomes words. The vastness of the medium suits me. I live in words the way Americans live in America. Dance, drama, music, masonry – the instep of the precariously poised, the thunderous frothing applause, the piquant voice of the piccolo, the seam that cleaves the stone. All give way to words. And slippery, yet, the wet set of a mangom seductive—these sounds which refer equally to all things yet remain themselves disembodied. Strung between us, punctuated by periods; sticky sweet and thus ensnarled, mellifluous kisses pressed upon the mute mouth of the world.