How about we end on the ear, cleaned of dust by a drum kit, the lowest note in the scale, the same chest thumping tableau of two men disrobed and so close their fears thin to apple skin. We ain’t hear nothing. We forget whose breath broke the silence. A tape deck stuck on fast forward. The punch bowl shattered on its own, the body blows we did not throw. Get low get low echoing in the speakers. We remember our fathers saying throw the first fist and buck. We remember we invented our fathers’ advice about how to fight another man, because we did not know how to begin a love, only how to bruise the end.