so that when kings combine to arrange their princes around their stories, the hand and soil will have been rowed. So flood, and dollar, one of heights. Vines hang from the crowns of the guanacaste, dip delicately into the waters. As though you needed them. As though you liked to bind their talons by thread, run the washboard of their beaks along those fibers: stilt music above, and the lure. The last song of the crocus bag, the loose darn of a cumbrous mango. Rakish teams of angelfish, diffused in waves of fanning air, scooped from the dead tourmaline.