the less likely you on harps, the less likely you strumming along a note slammed sideways through your fingers, the less likely you had been an adam’s apple bitten by an eve entrenched by the river where factories dump sludge and remains, her ankles cut by tin cans and an admirable achilles heel before a bloody calf, the less likely you would remember, the less likely you perched with fishing hooks and throwing a line, the less likely you would pitch yourself forward, more than ever you towing out to past the river banks, unsteady but sure, broken glass and the stench of leaving, or arriving, whatever is more likely.