Without a first line you have nothing.

(That’s not true, but it sounds good.)

What could go wrong?

(Lots of stuff.)

You sit on the porch of an old house in a college town and the stuffy air fills your lungs.  The sound of cicadas drives the dream even hotter.  Texas withdrawing into a July day. Distant shafts of sun cut low across the lawns and the threads of red and gold weave their way through the trees and you wonder as you look at the carpet of light and then you wonder still as the colors enrich themselves in the way of all things immortal.  Summer school is in session and the students are in a state of perpetual picnicking, lying around on the grass underneath spreading oaks hoping to levitate with pot and wine, praying for a good breeze to carry them up into the evening.  Some of…