Just last night it was early summer as I stood, at home and deeply rooted, in a warm wheat field, net in hand. I was waiting for and eating words as they danced and whispered by on a dripping, pollen-loaded, musky breeze. I saw them coming from a distance in hoards - stormy, echo-leaved colonies - they were riding the silver crests of dusk. They only ever blew my way, onto my lips, when another one of God's infinite faces died somewhere - they are made of endless deaths. Here they are shuffled - sifted, stacked and sorted - then they are tailored and en-vased. They never last much longer than cut flowers.