“…Pessoaic, ” he said br and my heart fluttered. br br ~ br br He had paused first, focusing me, br and I had yielded – accustomed to br lingering in his pauses, teetering on br the edge of acute awareness and br feeling the anticipation ripen br br within me. When he spoke again, br it was in our language; the image br spinning already in and through br a shared conscious. A poet-in-pieces, br knelt before the open trunk, pulling br br pages between them and arguing br intellectual copyright – each insistently br pleading on behalf of their subject, br their emotions, their truth, as the br rain began to fall from the darkening br br sky outside. I would gently correct, br redirect – flinging the conversation br onto another path – my eyes lifting br as I did from the paper between us br to the poet before me and in br br the sultry air of a dimly lit room br that we never once occupied, against br the backdropp of a lone streetlamp br and too many raindrops to count, br his eyes, and heart, met mine.