I vaguely mourn ice, the thaw having passed. Littering, neither blessing, nor weight. Though it appears I resist, letting loose, of either. While winning delivers, little, amidst humiliation, I can burst, in ways, I wish, I would, sustain. And quiet is a field for revelry, a meadow scented by sun, woods bedded in pine. Until solitude turns to loneliness, and I step from the film-house, feeling like a boy, wanting to speak with you, of the heart, its breadth, and lease. Let us loiter in these matters, briefly please, and food and wine, and the gracious hostess and bartender, and negotiations, whether to plan. You said, hey, we always get by, you know. I knew, enough, to grasp your hand.