Ditto, ditto, there, you said it: an absolute wishbone is nobody’s utopia. Obscure, you mirror minnows’ shattered moon. You contain clean veils of milk, a snow or talc as whistle as scissor. Even a faded parachute, lunar and classic, shivers a scintillating shock of chance. But flash back, weary slake, to wavelengths whose celibate pillars skimmed salt’s teacup. That’s where you first reflected nothing. Turnip goose, a beekeeper ghosts your sail, hemming your alpine lace in rays of ridges while a lucid thermometer fireworks in error. After, whispers of gesso fog until you railroad your thaw oracle. Neither port nor pang, yet respiratory in your tentative blizzard of telephone and revolver, you disappear, a faceless keyhole for night-blooming shuttle suds. Unless you reflect, you’ll never lattice, so bludgeon wonder or orbit your meta-ozone to catchlight. Make something of yourself. Make an effort.