The salt air is cloaked in wineskins and rose stubble, curling up at the foot of the Laundry’s wasted clapboard, to chafe and groan at the absence of sunlight—my blood-cells approve!  This night, this soulful night I travel the open pollen roads of our summer lawn—lime green, illimitable, flimsy from solar affection… the moon lights at the swipe of a dry matchstick… life is too powerful for the permeable… out here crickets sizzle like firedogs in the sea grass, wind chimes brake from the soul’s inactivity… men must breathe with iron lungs to survive themselves, and chuckle at the gracelessness of indifference, the duplicitous nature of roses, and the smooth cheeks of our children—things we cannot survive…