A voice is a voice threaded through and chosen by words. Or the voice chooses the words. In a fusing this intimate, who can say which is which? This is not a chicken-and-egg clichéd question, because there is no answer. Today, I remember oranges, limes, lemons; yellow school buses and empty desks; a quilting done so skillfully I would swear it was woven and not blocked out separate elements. That gay, Latino poet some are muttering about smithed beautiful words yesterday. Let’s remove italics, adjectives and other qualifiers. Let us please close our eyes and hear the song of a poet.