But the air stands in curtains. But curtains were the earliest radios. So then the air stands in radios. So then, situated in the civil obscurity of waiting, I can hardly breathe. I turn on the transistor and gasps at me, hisses, melts the pockets off my dismissal. It is in the process of becoming a pearl. A pale radio in the pose of a jewel, politic. I sink on purpose to watch it float. But the curtains scatter. Most of what we thought we heard, we had actually only seen. So then I will resist looking, it doesn't work in both directions, neither. Most of what we thought we had seen we had actually thought. The upright vapor of all the clauses from behind the curtains is so soft and tender against its own horizon, I don't want to know when
