#126

In the ten AM light, two green towels hung as curtains close the casting of this day. Neither Stephen nor Square in the morning, neither Cory nor Alex at night. Den ganzen Tag I am museless, plodding paths from the chair to the writing desk, from the kitchen to the mirror in the bath. Repied. Retreat. The saidentery library. Yes, booked I am ready. A homegrown adagio. 11, 17, 19, 23. A dinimishing allegro. A staircase less given to asceneding. For I've screened it again and against. The tell-tale adaging process of the art. Adamah, and you see what you get.

Ash-faced a damancy. That's Benjy, christened Adam now. And the way he has of asking after, stepsing toward what's wound. Cogitency and armorie, the plunger. And of Valerie no, and of Ciara, no longer. And alone is he, unless in love. The summer darnkess, dust. From Adam's Walnut Street apartment, or mit compadre at the bar. A deep, unbalanced chortle, like a cup of marbles spilled. The high-pitched stacatto that follows. Or in the classroom, how Adam's gaze would fall! His words shrink and with "umms" become rounded, as his hands, above the table or his lap, turned upwards, cupped and lilting to the slow rhsym of his thought. Bared and insultated: aman.

But what insans we might ave been ish ee did not live in awe!