But the low ones are just lovely. They’re
soft woolen blankets that cover me. Sparks
will burn out after the blast. But what I have will be
here when all else has passed. I don’t hit

the high notes. They’re short and they’re screechy. They
scream and the whittle beneath me. They’re like pepper
that makes one sneeze. I prefer the salt of the earth,
the strength of the sea. I don’t hit

the high notes. They’re not sustainable. Sure, I’ll admit
the lure of them is attractive -
until they fall flat and become inactive.