128: How often climate stands a tacit partner confounded with snow, which I know jacks about. To be in concord, how often my envy walks into the wiry mirror, tickling the ivory — music for a white harvest. Your hands, piano fingers are morally exigent, maybe, dancing chips shivering in a synthetic silk-festooned weigh station, changing state and situation — how often? Blushing! It’s new weather boldness leaping either side of my poor lips making inward sounds over your lips to kiss.