I insist there must be a bay in the near distance, its sound standing in for silences of my fragmentary voice. I am afraid on many days to speak in complete sentences Does this make me obscure, hard to understand? Perhaps yes. However sunlight on held hands is speech too, as are secret glances that become new seismographs of what might move us back in, into language, its adobe house in russet, its long table with books, where you can instruct me in arts other than longing. How to be radiant, for example, or how to take residence again in the listener's ear, as a voice that can carry time, the way music does to a point of erasure, in nights, in Mexico.