Nobody acknowledges entrance or exit. How do they know one another? Waiting for something to open, I capsize a row-boat of sound. How does a reed know its frequency? Waiting for a parenthetical embrace, or for a polysyllable’s mouth, an hour with strangers. Something in a draft of glances. How does one respond? A minute, what determines its frequency? You are supposed to know. How should you describe a minute when it is lost? A strategy of forgetfulness. Not trying to say too much. The virtue of page-break. Then, a place untouched by sentences. You are mumbling something true, in the evening. The boat reorients itself and now we are listening.