In the time it takes a flame to collapse in on itself. The possible lover. The possible totem of all impulse greets the loved with stealth, the muscles of his heart constricting and swelling and then again and over again. This scrutiny of impulse, it becomes all the world at once, a choleric thing crying out for reward. Could the possible lover have buried it among Pando’s roots so the quaking aspen, a male in its own right, could act as guard and prison and fellow prisoner? No use, as the possible lover is a train when determined, all iron and bolt cutters and wild soot.