To love the things that simmer at the bright edge of exactitude. To love the things that quiver at the dimmer edge of truth. *** The firm black lines of a raven seen against the pillowed whiteness of cloud; a composition of thrust, desire and voice, inflamed with purpose. The perfect balance of bone and air. *** At odd intervals we remember the world, that we are one with this world, woven into the fabric: a thicket, the dogwood, spray upon spray of silent blossoms, the eye reels. A solid gray boundary of gravestones stops us from going too far.