How body’s weather

combs speech. Then again. One

breathes and fills meat

with air to crease and unfold

consonants: song, song, song, song. So there

was air. To begin. Being with.

And since wind’s

always dancing there

had to be partners.

At first one slurs whatever

air enters

the writer: conspiracy. Then more

chorus. Feeling need

of it. To braid one’s tongue, chewing

the absences loose to taut.

Dancing with distant partners.

Luce, Maurice, Gaston: some French ones.