Embrasure, softly spoken. You hear that I am counting the days; (I say) it is between the numbers that the ear begins. A book is folded back, the gift is in the weight, the smell. I embrace each turn, the words stacked and stalled, drawn out. The slow move that pulls from the body; that rests the head, the sockets. The limbs are moist, the page is dark. A line is barely visible, like illness, like the shock at the few particles that make up my being, even when pressed against the eye, the others. The writing writes to me and my cheeks turn too, form red, ready, a seizure. Seizura Inquieta (Restless Flycatcher) a bird that lives in seizing/ceasing, that seizes/ceases in living, that gropes, gives, is in the grip of itself, possibly impossibly.   The body is in wake; I am here in words, forming as full flesh, as curves of breath.I read the book as you are writing, the pull at the marks I cannot re-visit, the spectre unspoken. I return the words as you near them, fill them, opened out by the ear, the mouth splayed, stuffed. Ambrosia (I say) food of god, imparting immortality, the hole divine, bruising. A body rises, warms the other. Our mouths graze amidst the elocution, the stomach, the skin of the sentence that curls. You are heat, I am colour on the flat sea. The eye shifts, we are both here, there, swallowing, gaping. Something acute. A shifting without breath, to move back from the brink of breath. We have not met. We were always here, seeing the equations stagger, the mound of hungry ants. To see you in the swarming, as the swarming, the sounds that prick the skin. You are pushing back, the book is blinding us, we are remembering the cupped curved hand, the ground that covered us.