We can't step back from the stars. There they are showing up regardless of feelings. At
the Chateaux de la Loire, Bolero and the rhythm of the kettle crescendos on the counter.

We see differently grace, bounty, watching our surroundings through pressed glass.
Riding in the car, brassy moments shudder past, while the radio plays a concert. The
countryside whizzes, as the players express cues and separate instruments infuse into the
orchestra. Even though far apart, the clarinet staccato and the metal drum unite with a
flick of the tongue and a wrist flare, how they bare all. How they bare it. The state of the
universe doesn't do this, or maybe we are the ones, who can't observe. We don't see the
middle of earth, the stars, a point in the road when it curves onward lengthwise.

The aerated dirt exhumes a meretricious scent of spaded ground. Like Stendhal's
"crystallizations" we want to know already and before. Reach the rift across space where
direction is absent, reach hands, reach a face. The moon embroiders the edges of leaves
with threads of silver glints, illuminated webs, one and then another.