Then H. What is there to say about H? Is it hollow? Aitch or haitch, the stylists are aspirational. High as H is in the operations of language, its absence is equally to be noted. It harumphs words, hurts them into poetry, helps with the hum breath produces, then hovers undemonstratively, servant of its alphabetic colleagues. It is soft as a sighing September breeze (zephyr, if you prefer) or hard as a hit of hail. Hell is meaningful, and Heaven. H’s structure, like two I’s holding together with a line, is a frame for everything, heart’s hope through to hoo-ha.