In small spaces between the veins of a leaf or the nervures on an insect’s wings, the space as close as the gap between nerve cells, a connection is made without touch.

A minute gap is a junction between nerve cells a space across which impulses pass by diffusion of a neurotransmitter. Honey drips in a comb overlapping yellow and gold stars and triangles. A gap is a door. A gap is a point of passage and transmission. A gap is a margin where one plane touches another plane and in that narrow hallway a man murmurs in his cardboard box lain against the asphalt and folded against the cinder block wall. A melon contains a gap filled with seeds, and the seeds once planted create more veins and leaves in the gap between planting and growth of vine. The vine’s flowers attract bees. The sun causes the shadows to fuse between two objects close together. They are so close that the light drips from the space and shadows connect across the gap. Two straws held to the sun, the light against them, sparking on the white and curling red line. Drawn up closer and closer, the shadows jumps, passing one bits of darkness.

She sits on the other side of the table. Her wrists turn to the sun. She watches him play with straws, and he doesn’t know what is in her mind. If he knew her better he would know. And instead, he had to waits to hear what she might have to say. Someday she might say whether she remembers what was in her mind as he played with the two straws. She tells him about learning to play the drums. She tells him about archery lessons. She tells him about her time among the aspiring city managers who work in the sailboat crews on weekends. At no point does he know what she thinks. One shares its shadow with the other straw. The darkness jumps across the gap.

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This is part one of a five part series of collaboration between Taibi Mastelse and me. She provided five collages, and I wrote text in response. We passed the pictures and text back and forth, and they are.