A wedding ring is ceramic, a heat shield air-dropped by The Migraine from her curls and eyes. A wedding ring plunks, then skeets, then caroms like a ball bearing let fly upon the leaf or the wheel.

The wind drawn through it drives forth the ghosts, the gusanos—eccentric scourges all—with a howl.

And the howl becomes a string on which the concerto plays, through which the wave crests thread. Until, at last, with the devilry in frothing retreat, the sonoluminescence, stamped out in O's, gleams in black imagination.

A wholeness foretold in blackness, in tempest, and your voice goes out among the dire din, and your voice—invoking the droplets, the deluge belayed, the grim gift that it once was—goes out, leading the imps and tricksters, gorgons and satellites to pause to turn to see what echoes, what reflects.