Then I’m at it again: My fingers, gods you knew my fingers, entire honeysuckle swell forcing a temple longing, purer recall in worship, adore my mouth, stirs loving Aphrodite, sweeter your strength, revelation juices you open and the pink bird throbs. Wow, that was pretty fucking good. Did I say it out loud?

“Jesus, that was beautiful!” G exclaims.

“Did I say it aloud or did you read it?”

“You said it. Beautifully intoned too. Can you say it again?”

“I got it,” Ni goes from the backseat. “I have the Sony on. I was anticipating something, I guess.”

“Was that Sappho?” Joy asks. “Doesn’t she have a poem about Aphrodite?”

“Indeed, she does, Joy,” says G, like Joy was her star pupil. “ ‘Ode to Aphrodite.’ Not about Aphrodite per se, more about, uh, girl-desire. ‘Fleet and fair thy sparrows drew thee, beating fast their wings above the dusky harvests . . .’ That’s about all I can remember.”

This actually doesn’t bother me, Joy getting the intellectual jump on me like that, not that I would remember that title—I can barely remember anything, though I did remember Operation Frequent Wind, which I guess was a reverse brain fart. I’m even getting all warm thinking about how smart Joy is. It’s making me sweat. “Well, there ain’t no sparrows drawing anyone now,” I say, as if I don’t give a shit, though the bird-void continues to freak me.