The tiny dirigibles we cannot see, a soft fluttering over lips, have the most ornate wrought-iron lattice work, are beautiful in their curvatures as the edges and spirals place pressures on balloons like lips’ pressures. And the nightnoise of all of the whittling, those hands carving marionette versions of the dirigibles, the shavings we sense as nightgown slips sense lungs, the stillnesses of faces they paint. The intricacies of strings, the machinations of each silk, are the intricacies of reaching soft against the dirigibles’ fluttering fabric, the edges, the kiosks, dangling spiral sidewalks of Recoleta, the artisans whittling, the nightnoise nightgown flutters, all of it beneath the pressures of the trees’ leaves, beautiful lungs in thin-strapped gowns wandering, their eyes, the strings, the streets beneath wrought-iron balconies, fabrics wandering the curvatures of bodies like lips.