We want to think in shapes but we end up thinking instead in language.
A cricket so close smells like fire.
What it is to roll over into another person’s dream.
Before death my father’s eyes and my dog’s eyes were the same—hollow and desperate.
Rains a supermarket and everything falls down into hard chatter.
Hand perfumed by a stranger.
Kneeling is graceless. To strip one’s self of grace. Doing away with excesses, drunk with it. This is the body in prayer. This is the body shuddering amidst light.
As if sleeping through a door.
The I worries with some relief/release later.
Signs unreadable. Proportionate frames emerge approximating a message.
Took shower, made bed, walked across campus to barn.
Presidium in effect, powers of description rest with the intermediary body.
I remember the places we’ve yet to go, all those little bites.
In my book, someone wrote, “Language comes from the dead.”