VERY MUCH like a vessel in which you have two choices. Spread a length of baling wire and, hands rust-striped, sew your seat back up. Or follow the instructions. Then, of a sudden, everything turns into instruction. Do you put the seat cushion to your chest and clasp forearms through the elastic straps provided? And if the plastic bag does not inflate, is the oxygen still sweet smelling? Have I left my head between my knees? Langurs (languorous) hang from the rhododendron trees, their fixed black lips bulging with instruction. At the falls, pedalboats in the concrete lake (rebar showing, rebar always showing, in case we need to add a second story) turn only circles. And the tiny tinny music, out the tired speakers, rings off the concrete; you recognize the words but the grammar gyres up with the spray from the falls, lit by the sun, and falls apart.