The chorus knows all the interpretations of the story. First, the finger of the river must point to heaven. Then the other body will be decoded. We all can clap our hands to make a rainstorm. It will sound the staircase walking. I’m the one who must inflate the day with my delusions. What a waste of perfect sickness. Incorrigible as contagious affection. The fountain underground to shrink awhile. Disorientation draws the picture of recognition. Aesthetics gets lost in the tendrils of laughter, as an obsolete folk dance will be forgotten. I, clumsy with a sewing needle and some thread, might be able to repair the hole that was torn by language in the lake that we are using for a bed. No one tells me anything about the thunder.