They’re openings peculiar to our directions, their prosaic existence reminder of the birth of flesh. Their very airiness is oxygen of a blue-wrapped planet, air consonants depend on through constant attraction. Blush puts vowels out there, cheek of them, wonders of throat’s dexterity. Distinct is the stuff of their music, as in the four notes of February, acrobatic as acrobatic, dogged as dog. Even gaunt withdrawal will break silence, and silence is where we wait. We give small thought to how it all will close, refined words, loud owes, a cough, groans. You hear the profuse confessions, the least loneliness.