 June and I were trying to remember a little bit about poetry, because I like high sense of it. A different quote. A different one, a newer one. It's all screws, glue, water, clogs, and... It's a little bit of fun. Oh, thanks. I thought it would be a make-up. We're going to paraphrase it, but I think it's something like this. Poetry is like putting my heart on my face and going out into the world. I think so. Yay. Okay. This one, and I have a lot of students here, and I'm so grateful that you're here. I appreciate it. This one is called Velocity, and I am not a physicist. The timing roar of a hummingbird's wings over our trumpet vine. Venus return home to a newborn's heart. NASCAR. My fingers lifting plate to mouth, the last piece of chocolate cake. Neurons firing. A chin down, hopefully surreptitious peak of interest across a room. Distance over time. I praise this dispatch, momentum, rate of change. Sometimes. But just how fast do you want your heart to beat? And through how many seasons? When we are here inhabiting a space one moment and gone the next, speed is cruel. The villainous master of a fat hourglass with an ever-expanding waist. And the cataract flows. Once upon a gosemity, white-haired Bill Butler, lanky, grinning, hot-bellied sage, caressing an old Milwaukee tall, said, Anything you can't do slow, you can't do long. Take away the foxy drawl, the sly sensibility, and his words made me a beggar for breaking time. For sipping the stillness of morning's quiet, tilting to the red-tail's cry, savoring a new tooth's gradual drop into place. I long for time's lengthening, stretching the formula, defining the rules, defining the abstraction, and determining how many years my parents' hearts will continue to beat.