#43

And the hands came down, flat upon the desk. This was your dismissal. Leave the lyric, they told me, there, and bother no one with the morning. Chorea sancti viti. A terrible disease. Propped up in a younger style, say, "the salad days of borrowed plates." All the forgetting that food entails. I mean, the empirical, and the pretend! Characters sent scattered through doors. While in the line of paper trails, you think again of breakfast.

Aluminum frond, like an image on water. One glance is as bad as another. Actaeon posted a sign of warning. "All things / are not told / to all." A mirrored box, a shield askew: drawings of the real in shadow. Or: brilliant in the light of capture. Many birds overhead. Many symbols, moving prodigal shit-deployers. The skies in my eyes like clothespins, like flies, that pivot instead of remember.

(An image: an image). Let's describe him calling them forward.