I think I wanted to say something loud, something meaningless but nevertheless heard, but my lungs and the virus held inside me held me back, made me feel faint, like my chest was a pencil and my mouth was filled with an old kitchen sponge. The virus is not a metaphor, the rest probably is, if it or someone cares enough to make it one. And then I waited for him, body chilled by the snow that comes up to his door when the wind blows. I rumble and shake and am silent, needles in my tonsils, still. What can I make of this softer plane? It is like before, sloughing through shallows of language, pulling it up like seaweed from my grandmothers lake. I shall leave it on the end of my dock, for the workers to gather and dispose of somewhere unknown. I taught myself to swim there, life preserver, too big, floating up over my head, but I press on and make strokes of movement until it makes sense. Garden rake the lake bed, pull up the shells and the weeds, expose the sharpness that will cut into my feet and bleed out of a white skinned wound. This is not the usual nostalgia. It's on the wrong side, looked at in a mirror; disbelief's suspension teaches itself to swim in a life preserver that is too big. You should not have taught me to gut the fish if you did not want me to faint. I will faint, no I will vomit, the storm is shaking.