#107

April showers. The forward hands of clocks. Charlotte, in the tea house, holds her newborn child. She speaks the mother tongue. I, in dim light, read my Cassirer: symbolic forms, and fuss, and fossick. Jeehyun invites me to dinner. The night at Nodding Head. Lightning. I am still no means to be here.

And what descends? And is it sunrise? The flux of words become words. Square and his sounds skipping over the wait. Gods of thunder, infinite. While I tend to the passage of women. The men that draw them distract. Anon, anon. What have you with your art? Oh, Stephen, we are not so easy at dissembling.

The things that come in dashes, periods. The mirrored L in which we pose our bodies. Not down, not up, not in at all. But halfway, seated, hands that hulk, that fall on figures varied. In station, in a windowed room. Our two tales - each formed from lines. Our inscriptions, each inscribed. We are pale, pale imitations. Impotent artists, Stephen, who will teach our work to crawl.