If your touch should catch and shimmer over nightfall, there would be a word there. Sloth, perhaps, or vicissitude. As in, the sloth of death and earth’s slow rumble, or questions concerning the vicissitudes inherent in problems with lightfastness, the slow unburdening of being, and my legs locked around your waist. The question of light pushes itself forward with my hair draped over your face, and the word “love” off my lips becomes itself, a thing to be harnessed in this unburdening, and in the ambition of the vine, with its arcs and stretches toward light. Impetuous shoots sprint, angled, greenly engulfing this surround of fence, of the space between us, evoking now separation, now silence.