Say I climb the ladder of wheatand at the top there is a faucet dripping beads of waterbut the water takes a year to turn into an eagleand the sky’s forty-three shades of gray piercethe first inflection of my heart, the point where the signalsthrow grass into the river. Say the river sagsand the horizon sucks the lance out of the ghost’s handslike the moment of being born, the point where a shadow’stongue slides through the faultline.Grace. Sunlight, cherries.Say for once I can hear all the bugs and clownsin my middle ear. Say the dark center spreadsits grainy inflection points into the keyholesand like a wheel they are singing.Like a drunkard they are sweating.Like a spider their threads stitch the oakmossaround the perfume factory. O elastic fibers.O floral molecules in the olfactory bulb!Say my favorite dog decides to hop over the boxwoodand the boxwood flings the thorax into a spiritual gulfstreamwhere I’m ungluing the windmills.Then I feel the hay settle into my marrowand the farm animals gather near the fence.The lake inflects its waves, the thunderhead wobbles.A bolt of pain passes through me.At last I am a tunnel.