The sticks are in my hands...and I begin the beat.  But how could I not begin the beat?  Everything is beating.  Everything is worked up.  Everything has risen. 

There used to be a time when I would breathe...you.  My heart would be elated.  My mind fogged.  My eyes welling.  My skin warm.  And I breathed you.  I relaxed in you.  Yes, you.  And there was nothing more that I wanted to do...than to rest my head...in you...deep inside of you.  And yet again, what do I say?  I just play the beat.  The beat says it all.

My finger and thumb fuse together and tap on the desk.  They tap to the beat.  And simple words--words so simple that a kid could write them--explain everything in such unique and full detail.  It was all detail.  I'd watch you do everything.  Your breathing even amazed me--just the mere fact that you did it and didn't realize it.  And everything should be repeated--it should all be repeated! 

The symphony plays...the beat.  The beat never stops, because the beat is the song...the beat is it all.  Simple words...simple words!  And they are whispered.   They are whispered to you in small bathroom corners where the tile makes the room ten degrees cooler...where barefeet walk and leave momentary foggy trails showing where they have stepped.  The words are all whispered in a corner--whispered from a child's innocent lips.

Her core...her core is jumping.  It jumps...and her hands continue to play the beat...and others join in...to the beat.  They all play, making a sweet, sweet symphony.  It's all a symphony.  But the words, the simple words...they say it all.  They outline everything that could have happened but didn't.  All those things...would have never happened.  Those words speak of things that were never ordained.  Creation.  Creation is what it is.  The words speak of things not created.

Look at the autumn leaves flying around in the whirlwind...and they dance to the music...all those colors free and floating.  And suddenly, as the beat becomes the only sound, they fall to the ground with grace.  The yard is cold.  What more do I say?