Already the dead are beginning to say to us their names. You say wind, I say tree. The pit of the peach has no flesh. Yes, stone. Eighth grade science found two fruit flies in a jar produce five by days end. Mating in clear glass, there’s no sound. You say cold, I say prison. There’s only one way to open a lid, the opposite of time. Travel the road of a clock, everything will tighten, nothing escapes. Say a name; together two hands form a bowl. Whisper your word here and my thumb will be a handle to your mouth. You say drink, I say now. The opposite of time is patience. The hand is not meant to be a cup; an instrument of language it’s merely a tool for saying hello, goodbye.