Is the approaching moment ever not demotic? Each desired, however knotty, hormonally generated. To surrender the outcome is to lose the script, to let the ridicule, ridiculous, and therefore the joy arrive us elsewhere. In our pregnancy, our public showings of much private resolve, every hand listening for the kick assumes bliss exists. And, in consequence, the blurring landscape is set against speed. It holds so much of our lives, in accidents, departures triumphant, arrivals. The night, the fog, a white moss of melted dew or mossy green of soaked leaves. You needn’t shuffle. There needs to be seen the chance in a thing, the possible embrace, not simply the spiderweb lace (ugh) lining the ouch. Be bop, Ersatz, when we approach

be not distracted by grinding back molars, milky shakes drawn up in a straw, there resides butterflies off kilter in all. It is clear, no tingle without intention survives. We mean to be good.