You need to bear down with the heel of your hand to start the heart beating. You need to breathe into the quiet mouth, to halt the bright blood spurting, yet let it flow from any wound made by nail or claw, tooth or talon. You need to lean into weather when it is wind or water, to tear through longing’s thin sheath, the plastic covering the pill to cure pain, the oily wrapper around fish or fry-up. Here are three candles to light the body’s winter. Here is a cracked map and a broken-legged chair you can prop on a slab of marble. Lie down only when you are sure it is over. Your tongue? Hold it. Catch your breath, whisper. Lie down after weather, after the body’s storm is over. Stilled tongue, stilled mouth, stilled finger, and now the red fire fading—how quiet once the hum is over. How after everything in the still air.