It sounds like the cracks and clicks of the house settlingas the room warms in morning, it sounds like a fanwhispered up. It tastes of wood smoke — sweet and then stale.It looks like the curve of a mountainunder streaked sky, and everything pale bluejust before sunrise, everything translucent,even stone. The stone is blue, it tastes, after all,like tea in a glass cup, it feels like wanting ablanket on your lap, nesting, hovering arounda wound, no a break, where the mountain opens,wanting to heal, to soften the gap, to close it,like an empty room inside of me, and I want to give it fireand fill it with humming, and make it humand vibrate — the resound of a chamberopened and filled with air — with beating.I want to fill the…