She’s back home. So Brad posts the latest piece circling round her as if it were a 

gift; Bent instructs us in the conception of Roland Barthes’s language as skin; 

Camelia lauds the innocent, outstretched hands of Keats; & ejoy, whoever she is 

with a penname like that, cites the erotics of friendship. It’s a ritual, welcoming 

her home to a fine meal & good wine, surprises of all kinds. I mean I’m not the 

same person she left to fend for myself four days ago, nor is she. So we make 

inquiries, reintroductions. Times when I realized, after certain lengthy absences, 

that what I missed most was her voice, the tone. Now, in the twilight of my years, 

it goes further, touching on something indefinable. Whatever that is for a poet. 

So, undefined, there she stands within proximity emanating the indefinable aura. 

However, when I go off for my morning trek against the sea, where autumn 

continues to draw back summer’s flora revealing monumental stones & scree, 

what do I imagine but lines of her body & ears for hearing to speak in response. 

When I return to look up the plural of orifice, pervading contemplation, I’m 

given the example: orifices of wounds. Love marks this skin of language without 

scarring.