There is a dream of finding home inside a single, endless sentence––not one to be realized except intermittently, in fleeting sightings of the wonder it might become––not protection, but enactment of a dance in time with the chorus of the living, whose expansive breath would naturally include the dead, breathing into these and into me, too, and we would be where there is no there, only here, and we, laughing. Breaking open. Our faces to find behind them. A grammar that cannot be verified, made of a logic we may approach but never encode, only and ever––
