#128

Amadan in beds. God in the cracks of sky. The flutter of leaves and wings as Stephen staves his words. Day 1, in the morning, the ablated stones of the old Christ's Church. Detourne, erase, and elms, their branches sweeping toward the visitors. A rough-hewn angel, weathered cross. Words of death smoothed down by rain. Water-words now, an empty onomastics. Timor mortis conturbat me. Pigeon on the roof above. A horse-and-buggy passing early with the cars. Says Square, having circled the rocky garden, "S'pose there are fifty righteous within the city. Writeous, I mean. Suppose...dispose..." Still early and his mind rising to make its war with letters.

What comes, where to? The silver stretch of streets turned black. The situations of visitations, and will for what...? The rose...the rose... Stephen's mind too a muddle of words, outside the gate and past the sign that welcomes. And I? I would have them amble neath the lights, past the numbered doors of those who dwell, our heroes' minds as patterned as the city's sharp geometry. And they would, in keeping with themselves, be brushed and butted by what's passed, while I, who know them, keep with others, trusting to providence their path. And the meter of steps that fall. And the city's corners suddenly laid out for love, as if some patient and benevolent author had known and made ahead of time.