We heard truth in the word, tearing. Banknotes, flags and passports could be torn but the hard material of coins, screens and credit cards could not. We followed glass, a material that cannot be torn, to its beginning with geometry. We secured rectangular windows versus the complexity of leaves, which can be torn. We heard the end of the poetic line as it turns relentlessly, whether cutting, breaking or tearing. We read The Ear of the Other. In any case the proper name is the only thing that does not change in translation, said Jacques Derrida. Even numbers may change. We read an essay by Norma Cole about Samuel Beckett who turns the ten nights of Le Bateau Ivre into nine in translation. We heard green tear in the word, ephemeral. Vertebrae of spring cast their shadows on the place name. We can follow this spine where the flesh of the greater body is ephemeral. We can follow the ephemeral and describe it from a point of view created by the place name. There is no more pattern in any torn fabrication. We can follow the hoax, be taken in, swindled. To be green, to be gullible, to be young. I heard the subway passing beneath the building six stories down. I heard the insistence of near and distant memories. Interest shuttled past rapidly. I gave my attention to credit. I inscribed my signature on the screen with my bare finger. I credited my senses with the accumulation of fluctuating reflections. Released cellularly, memory is sensuous, more exaggerated and rawer. I gave my attention to participating as a spectator. Credit erected a temporary structure over memory.