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A silver flashlight bobbed around. It was a weight itself and also a means of searching weight. It was both a thing — a hardware torch — and a thing for hooking light to deeper things. A map of motion sprung from the level of stem and encircling it with

a small and radiant crown. The flashlight hit on a flower. Whorl was a name for a number of things. A small circle completed in a fingerprint. A small wheel in a spinning wheel. A corolla of possible colors. The increasing idea of becoming someplace

else. Foresight had made this appeal but who knew where it would next spread open or what sacrifice it would ask of those who would have stepped up to mind it in its full and unoccupied transparency? There were other places to be. Transparency had

never moved entirely beyond the scope — had sorted through earthbound feelings very acutely in splinters some had more accurately called slivers. That a piano fitted with an apparatus might play itself beyond the roomy absence of whomever.

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