This is not the 14th century, yet. Romney wakes up, with verbs for the force of opinion. We stand in the back room and listen for nouns. These come first. He says the nouns are made of pining material, that wants to own itself. We believe him, his head is squared to the universe. We ask for a verb, and he says multiply. So many things could be so grown. We wait till he satisfies his own moment. What of adjectives, we ask. He says we have quickly become. That seems like no colour at all. Could you try again, Mitt? He wants a hill in Belmont to adjust our lives. It has already adjusted our lives, we reply. Each day is a cardinal virtue, Romney says. Each night of gathering is a stinking fall, we have to say. The swamp repines the moment when he could have been alive. The words resigned, disappointed.