We have been moving across plastic hills and valleys. To haul the pink boat over land, dust particle in a spiral groove. Reading crusted tree bark with a finger. Vinyl records. Anxious, the traveler doubles back the next aisle in the parking lot. Memory textiles in breeze rhythm. Brain fabric, mind prism, touch. Children, probably boys but who knows, inventing an ancient style code. What is fire, if it cannot be seen? What is a star or a comet? I would like to know the different handshake of a different tree. That way, if I were blind and walking in a forest, it would be like language. Recomposition and oak leaves with feather ramifications splitting. Hands out, sounds of breathing. Map grain, texture, fragments.