To speak of generations. Yes begin at that. To speak of the leatherwounds so careful, like fingerfeathers along the brim, along the beachthroat, before choking, before breathing. I felt so much of some other place other than here, other than the sound of bones hammered for marrow being sucked out, being beaten out. Yes, somewhere at that, between the vocal chords and the trachea, just before breathing, before the chestrise, the bellydescent, before I forget every reasonbeing, every nuancestrand of this one moment more. Of you with your jawsnap, of your colorsleeve, forgotten, so many times over forgotten along the shore.