woke up. prayed through the mist of a recalcitrant kettle. counted the ways to remove sinewy glue 
from the eyes. wondered how many ways there are to cross a river. wondered how many songs can 
swell from an abandoned complex. the hauntology of a spilling vessel. 

the light breathes between the shutters. a glare shoots up across angled louvers. 
the wind has whipped the leaves from autumn to spring. shadows dance like the glistening 
on water, rococo for a naked ceiling. 

still, somewhere, the sound of violins, practicing scales, mellifluous amidst the heater’s 
crackle. the gush of rain has shattered and ended. eschewed the split-second snap of an umbrella, 
the water trickling down the hood to the neck around the shoulders. 

i am mere auto-narrator. i am sheer self-ethnographer.

reflexivity is a precious thing. in one pocket, social capital, in the other, a jangle of coins. what is a 
field but an ambiguous system. a comb of grains births a new concept. 

the wick bends: an oath, a horror, a curse, a taunt. then the organ swells and the bright sorrow is 
more than the eyes can take. 

two rocks overlook a bare valley. their laughter is expressed in exactly ten syllables. a fine use of 
metre. tumbling off a cliff they enter an immanent sweetness. remember to be kind. remember to 
call your parents. 

the sighs of a girl can only be heard once the clacking ends. hands taken off a loom. soon they 
become coarse from lifting a sword, reining a horse. when two rabbits run, how can one tell which is 
male, which is female? 

on a day within and without the seas, an official gives thanks for broad waves. it was never for glory,
he etches in ink. brushstrokes fine enough to elide a foreign hand. a lonely cloud. 

count each time you are asked about divinity. count the statements about living in an 
estate of regeneracy. midnight marches past its own ends. try to hear the celestial music. 
a love of form is a love of endings.