The song itself had hinges. The clasp on the eighteenth-century Bible had hinges, which creaked; when you released the catch, the book would sigh and expand. The song was of two wholes joined by hinges, and I was worried about the joining, the spaces in between the joints, the weight of each side straining them.
No one to hear but Records for the broken player. No reason for order but order persists, from breakfast to bath to work, rain falling at one speed, the windows darkening and blurring, accident beating against belief. A loud engine, which is one way to say one thing. The floors swept daily, though it takes at least one hour for the first, one for the last. In the pages of a book, quick studies of gesture, tents of hands.