from Patricia Storace  I have always eaten words. I have sometimes eaten my own, but even more often I have feasted on the words of others. Vladimir Nabokov heard sounds associated with colors, through his celebrated audition colorée: in my case, words present very specific tastes and textures—a kind of audition savourée. The word “flourishing” rises like yeast dough in a bowl, pregnant with itself. “Truth” is liquid, swallowed deep by the “u” and gulped yearningly through the “th” like a perfect draught of cold water on the hottest day. “Evening” has a distinct savor of piñon wood smoke.