“The barberries have vanished” –Georg Trakl Suddenly the most dismissive sky retains a coy aura the cellar can’t fathom or undermine. If it was spring these telltale shards of old snow artfully scattered beside one’s path would make sense, perhaps. As it is we’re coming out into the open; the longer one sidles, the more “him” there is to keep the a cappella company. Yes, that’s what we would have liked back then. Stippling, it was called. And the closer the percussionist retreats into maculate ephemera, the wider apart these qualities are. So tell me, why jostle like this?