…followed yourself
through your own, displaced
worksites (whole
weeks in
the white scaffolds of a single,
refractory sound).yours, these

arms, organs
a-

waiting conveyance:the
buoyancy of some
exact
syllabication.doves, juniper, the
bright

lime quarries, just over.isn’t this
what you’d worked towards? the
world, the world’s, the very
magnitude

you’d thin to? wedge,
trans-

parent?

———

whereby the
dahlias, gargantuan, their red petals
un-

dulant as octopi.whereby the
air, the

uttered air, what you’d
bring, in
measured increments, through all
that

dep-
redated space.(there, in that
late country, you’d no longer
be
yours.you who’d

already have reached, by then, the ‘may,’ the
‘might,’ the ever-
narrowing
coils

of some tenuous
‘could’).