Translation in the close dark causes tongues to catch on knobbed spines. Unzippering mouthfuls along the length of secret sentences. One language to another opens in a grin, a stutter to a tentative translation of this alphabet of four. Now see, her jaw lit. Why sew ivy cut for the sun? Let barrel-folded fingers wring the kinks straight: Staircased helices, the hidden yes.   Phages in Love  Infection Separates fuse in this commitment to kill unless a mad moron. No dead end here: pressure, coiled tight, crushed in corners, quiet until now. When God says to count stars, he has…