There is poetry in the way sound departs the womb of renewal. What seems to contain endlessness: dark. What punctuates it: moonlight. I’m a house that no longer aches; a house grateful for windows. Say forward like you mean it, the way we commit to breaking through the unwanted or feared. This is where I do not know what moves to become static. In a poem that is not a poem. In a sound that is only sound and not music. This is where the throbbing afternoon becomes a part of me squeezing out of origami, paper gods in creases and folds and the quiet, wet solitude of the back roads taking me home.