I sit on the train to get here. I drink coffee and water in equal parts. The train does the work and I rest, like the rest of us, hungover, on the seat, my legs coiled.

Instead of conversation, mutual recitation.

We enter a tunnel, we leave a tunnel. We go ‘round and ‘round the mountain, tracks clasping it like cunning fingers.

The silver windows shimmy like soda soda bubbles. (Double.)

Later, I went whooping up the hill in my hiking boots and long legs striding. I had a friend with me and she talked a lot, but I didn’t pay attention, just prompted her with joyless questions. She took the bait, went on and on, and I let my mind to wander.

My legs did the work and the rest of me rested.

The hills grew wild with wild blue grapes. Between thumb and forefinger, we plucked and plucked them.

Not a soul for miles. (Echo, echo!)

We didn’t eat them for fear of karmic retribution, but rolled them secretively between each pair of fingers.

“This is how the Gods made wine,” my friend said.

“They used their feet, I’m pretty sure,” went another.

“Are you into blue? ” was the final question.

“Echo, echo!” was the replete reply, full-throated call, but lacking something.