New fruiting bodies pop up from my compost heap of language, like this one—asymptote— and I’m torn between putting it in my basket, or leaving it to shake its fungal head and toss spores windward. Oh, okay then, I’ll reach for the word. But slow. Slower. Hand ever closer but not. Quite. Grasping it, at all—a geometer I’m not. Yet there are other paths. Desire, like an asymptote, is “always approaching, never arriving;” but even a spore will find its way to germinate, once it’s blown clear of the graph.