The night bends back on itself. It does not hail or conquer time, almost it doesn’t. We offer the hoops, we take the dive. Years later we may emerge. I am not attending, even so, or getting even. Words will betray any time. The tongue is an instrument, we play as most serious. The way uncovers itself in mysterious shudders, the sudden winter cold. Actions trace their truths and I am in their constant presence without aid. I do not do this lightly, except with breath. The bed is wide and tonight the moon is thin and elegant, an etched nail on the sky. We hang ourselves there as if it’s the only time we have. There is no music. There is no need for music.