It's morning.

Heart lands again in a rainy airport, and waits for its attendant, the body, to show up on the baggage carousel riding on a crate of wine. It then wanders out, cuff-wet, hails a taxi with a wave of its hand, and joins the runnels of cars radiating inwards to a frenetic city looming across a river.

There it will say silent for days, a stranger to others, to itself. Will perfect the dumb art of gesture.

A gaze held too long across a cafe window that could mean anything: "your naked hunger bothers me"; "I am glad atleast you, the stranger, have noticed the curve of my neck and shoulders in this summer green dress"; "I am as lonely as you are in this country of speech".

Its cold hands will warm themselves over eyelets of huge sunflowers, fingers saying to it "this is bread of hot summer air. This is all that you are allowed to touch now. Forget the nights when the mouth cleaved through the faint rivulets of hair on her body, feasting. Forget all these hungers, only one of which is your own. This one: to speak, and be spoken to."