Terese Svoboda The dark one with the orange pincers behind. The o-shaped, all resolution. The two-legged, the forewarned, the explicit, the red-by-accident. Always a line short. ABABA. Always failing the sunset in compelling insouciance. What must finally be said? Ah, beauty–or, I get it? A catastrophe of silence is what a bird fills. Inured, casual about the immunity of time to space, we repeat: the last shall be first. Terese...