The filamentous ‘hows’ and the ‘whys’ and the ‘by which pathways taken’ are sensitively lured from the convoluted niches in my psyche. I have to trick them out, plying them with lullabies and promises of ripe peaches. Once I have them held so carefully between my fingers I begin to braid this strand over that until the plait tells me it is done, and I tie a knot. In this way, I try to enter the next dimension: my eyes turn in on themselves looking for answers that are everywhere but so easy to miss or that slip away once you have their tail in your teeth. Going deeper and quieter and also wider and vaster, looking for a unified field. With my constrained tools and shifty metaphors, I erect comely little temples or altars to the vital vapors and invisible imperatives. The patient tick on the tip of the sun-warmed sweet grass waits; the shard of glass sits so quiet under the soft sand. Then very quickly things spring into action and points of egress are made, and transmissions occur, and the continuums (meaning us) are pulled a little this way or that, and perhaps calcified material is made pliable.