"You must see the world differently," you said. "You must—
struck by your cupped hand arcing the spine of my slim volume, its chord. Your fingers, slender as the legs of Pholcidae¹ spiders, still light on the page, resembling grace, loosely held
filaments, silk spun like fingering through the counters and bowls of this score. You hold the moment still, pulling at this or that string, tension in your hand balanced by how lightly your fingers strike chords, still.
—see poetry in everything."