I was naïve of foreign affairs in the Four Seasons bar when a Swiss knife maker assured me of the coming war. I ignored, the night of invasion, the accidental celebration of a bottle of wine opened in spite of everything. Four years later my radio wakes to a string of explosions unreadable as fever or a blush to lips pressed to the brow, indistinguishable as our ones from one hundreds to the discerning fingers of the blind. Sleep heavy as a child’s has impressed the red shape of my right hand on my chest. In my university town, steel I-beams rise out of the perfected pit of a new foundation, a new addition to Physics. From down the street, the welder’s torch looks like a fallen star.