Nectarine to the touch or scent. Some fruit to transform a song into a nightgown, cotton & coffee stained. That which you keep hidden, despite its sour beauty, like sawdust in the evening. Open my cabinet: filled with old shells, barnacles that cling to solitude and plastic things, serrated and lost. Drawing the curtains to hold the ocean, its nightmare weight pushing the windows with bass notes that grab your spleen & vibrate. It feels weird, not like honey on the tip of one’s tongue or green orientation. The binary combination of angular voices, such that start at once, then stop. Modal & particular & slow. Your secret has a pit, slick with tendrils. The shape that you thought was your own, both everyone’s & not, hollow.