In the market to be a sense is
pealing out the surface areas. A fruit seller
is terse, sagittal. How summer is
a fit expression, as germane as botanic.
I possess an indefinite impatience. What
do I observe? Here a faith in images still,
and moving, I observe nothing
quite proves prosody but people feel rhythm
in their bodies. The body is pronounced
bawdy. And here a faith in materials
I too cagily profess. And then ‘the sense
faints.’ I fold this.
Steadily I discover exteriors.
I fold them.
Continual and cheapened light
of the electric kind suffuses most areas
in which I remain. In some sense I am
reporting on a country. What do I
observe?
Observation, its obstacles. Forms of envy.
Narrative
growing out of the landscape constrainedly.
A seasonal negation
inducing absence.
A relation blooms in this landscape
full of abuses.
The people aren’t errant,
they are erratic.
Terror takes them. Territories
sing refrains.
The air is filled with amazing
becomings, Marquezian
butterflies.
I fold this.
