Did I tell you the root hairs of the dragonfly crossed my wrist? I knew the insect was my brother, long gone, a lifetime ago, my twin, who died just one day after our births. Silly to say those mating filaments tickling my arm might be anything at all. Foolish to be a poet. Did I tell you I’ve been a fool all my days? That I grew up blind and mostly in the woods? Ergo it’s been a life of phonograph records, Russian opera, madcap forensics of invisible clocks, dark moods, child-like wishes, and clotted phrases drawn from under green ribs. As for my brother, I suppose he’s nothing. And there is no heaven. Boris Godunov where is your time piece just now, as it is midnight though the sun is perfectly up?