I cannot help but think of James Wright, sitting here in the damp of plaster and dog pheromones and dander and running washing machines and sitcoms blaring from the television upstairs, reaching back to try and touch that cave in the air behind me, its stone walls lined to sparks of jewels glazed in the earth’s cool spittle, vocal jazz reverberating out of its mouth and fireflies like slashes of neon paint alighting and fading in that precious region just out of reach, that hole in space where the heart lives, where it watches and pumps and sends messages like subtle sonic waves that hit my ears and hum, hum, hum before blooming into flame.