1 A point of access. An axis, a tuning. I am the machining. I am too the red flower that smuggles its stem through the road, a word for your wanting. Ships weigh in on water-light, on helices of radon, tie up and unload. Ports are concentrated stores of memory, phone cards, cranes. Container loads and gleaming fingers. Fourteen Russian languages, petals gleam atmospheric. Eavesdropping, my heart machines a voice.