previous meanings dragging behind them. Stories and observations must be told, must be opened like windows to let life rush in; even if no one is listening, even if the words get misinterpreted and return home wearing different clothes; that’s the law of gravity in this house of skin. Language distilled into coherent lines that may make sense to at least one person, preferably a child, or an old poet, or a stray cat prepared to meet me in silence. Words are thorns and balm both, but at times afraid to form, in fear the shapes might break, or implode, or arrive too whole and sharp, like stones dropped from a bridge. What do I have the right to say? What language is left that hasn’t betrayed its meaning? A grammar of silence, maybe…