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“... burns its small holein the tentwhere 3 lines on paperhave just been written down,the pen is lifting offas the missilehits, the zero pointwhere you callinto the face ofyour childwhich does not move,the zeroof its lid you’re pushing upseeking the gaze –just lookat me, lookback at me its father isscreaming, the zerowhere he only findsa hand, a partof the arm, where he picks them up –they are still warm,he holds the hand in his hand – the zerowhere he mustlet go, where the handmust be takenaway – there is still wind –the children are still asking forsome ice, the one u loved mostturns to u again nowin the sun saying wehave strawberries, we’ve foundshoes which fitboth of the girls, weare walking under trees –where are the trees –us thinking soonwe will take shelterwith people weknow ...”

“... I left the protectionof my plan & mythinking. I let my selfgo. Is this hope Ithought. Light fled.We have a worldto lose I thought.Summer fled. Thewaters rose. How do I organisemyself now. How do Ifind sufficientignorance. How do Inot summariseanything. Is this mystery,this deceptively complexlack of design. No sumtowards which to strive. No general truth ...”

“... Are weextinct yet. Who ownsthe map. May Ilook. Where is myclaim. Is my historyverifiable. Have Iincluded the memoryof the animals. The animals’memories. Are theystill here. Are wealone. Lookthe filamentsappear. Of memories. Whose? What waslandlike. Did it movethrough us. Something says nonstopare you hereare your ancestorsreal do you have abody do you haveyr self inmind can you see yrhands – have you broken itthe thread – try to feel thepull of the otherend – make sureboth ends arealive when u pull totry to re-enterhere ...”

“... The spacesbetweenthings beganspeaking. So it wasI understood Iwas nowto remainsilent. Saw howwe were allplungedinto this new strengtheningsilence. Was itvision was itcatastrophe. Thisfirst personI use hereas a way of referringto my being inabeyance – to myunknowing –though who are we kidding,it was not of the radiant kindwhere we wait in linewillinglyeyes closedfor the tap on the high spotof the soulfor illumination ...”

“... Listen the voice is American it would reach you it has wiring in its swan’s neck                where it is                always turning round to see behind itself as it has no past to speak of except some nocturnal journals written in woods where the fight has just taken place or is about to                take place                for place the pupils have firelight in them where the man a surveyor or a tracker still has                no idea what                is coming the wall-to-wall cars on the 405 for the ride home from the cubicle or the corner                office – how big the difference – or the waiting all day again in line till your number is                called it will be                called which means exactly nothing as no one will say to you as was promised by all eternity ‘ah son, do you know where you came from, tell me, tell me your story as you have come to this                Station’ – no, they                did away with                the stations                and the jobs                the way of                life and your number, how you hold it, its promise on its paper, if numbers could breathe each one of these would be an                exhalation, the last breath of something and then there you have it: stilled: the exactness: the number: your                number ...”

“... I can’t really remember now. The soundless foamed. A crow hung like a cough to a wire above me. There was a chill. It was a version of a crow, untitled as such, tightly feathered in the chafing air. Rain was expected. All round him air dilated, as if my steady glance on him, cindering at the glance-core where it held him tightest, swelled and sucked, while round that core, first a transition, granular – then remembrance of thing being seen – remembrance as it thins-out into matter, almost listless – then, sorrow – if sorrow could be sterile – and the rest fraying off into all the directions, variegated amnesias – lawns, black panes, screens the daylight thralls into in search of well-edged things … If I squint, he glints ...”

“... needed explanation because of the mystic nature of the theory and our reliance on collective belief I could not visualise the end the tools that paved the way broke the body the foundation the exact copy of the real our surfaces were covered our surfaces are all covered actual hands appear but then there is writing in the cave we were deeply impres ...”

“... A hand or something likea handappeared in the uppersky & Isaw what must have beenits fingers un-furl & drop two ice-whitedice which begantheir slowtumbling each over eachdown till they turnedto wings draggedby the weight oftheir bodies down & thenall the new &improvedviruses shook out theirmutationsas they fell, as theysprinkled down & dustedus – in-candescent – & then,spiralling, all of itswirled into glinting clanging war-heads whichappearedto be arguing eachwith eachabove the dinof the rushing airthrough which they nowfall, twoarguing then screaming mouthsas they drop everfaster with theirdisasters & morphinto just heads justfaces nobacks – mouthshissing & spitting as if eachwanted to be thewinning number as theyplummet – accelerating – so fast – allseeking to reachearth & revealthe outcome – look now it’sarms trying to claspeach other beforethey fall into the piledown there ofsevered arms or hands & thenthe feet fall & the droughts fall &famines likebunched veils reeling withtheir new contagions &then, small & icy& looking like they’d meltbefore they’d ever reachdestination, theideas – so jagged &hard to make out, fall – untilit’s just voices, twovoices, you’d think youcld see them sosharp is theirmuttering, so eager theirarticulation of right ofwrong, though themeanings escape us,they come from such altitude,& the tumbling turns nowagain into dice,the two of them flashingall their possible per-mutationsas they turn, as theyfall, ofchance they singinto the silence of our waiting,the centuries of waiting,the centuries of tryingto make outhow they’ll land,on whose side, whowill be rightin the end, whowill have fathomedthe right ...”

“... of my own died. Idid not die. Mylove did not. Is intact. Ichecked. Belovedswere not draggedinto the net ofthe eye ofthe drone, were not dis-membered intoinstant ancestors –not even memories, toofast, too torn, no. Screams. Wewoke. The suncame first inveins of red then rips,pinks, then rose asusual. Wedidn’t look up, atefast, were late, the day filledup, we askedall ourquestions – whatquestions werethose – I heard acardinal, it’sSpring – sosuddenly – soonit was eveningagain ...”

“...                                                             the laying down on                                                             the earth of the five-fingered silvermailed open hand of the Iguana. Life size. Look. Everything in life turns out to be                                                             life- size ...”

“... After the rain stops you can hear the rained-on. You hear oscillation, outflowing, slips. The tipping-down of the branches, the down, the exact weight of those drops that fell over the days and nights, their strength, accumulation, shafting down through the resistant skins, nothing perfect but then also the exact remain of sun, the sum of the last not-yet-absorbed, not-yet-evaporated days ...”

“... Can this write the future, its ooze and stiffening. With whom am I speaking. It sounds like a receiver off the hook a long time. It’s weeping. And you can’t say please stop to the future, it will not stop, it will not stop listening to you as you approach it, always clearer always louder – please stop listening future, but no it does not speak, it just leans in a bit & hears us as we come towards it – & once you think it you must think it – there is no way to recover what we were before – it will not fade – it’s only a thought but it will not fade – unnerving me, its only witness ...”

“... Again today the dream. But of what? The dream like a long slim tunnel we lay ourselves down in – the lilies in the dust, the face that seems to shine in the linoleum – blue – the thing we would strip down to if – the melting snow allowing, the faint falling-sound receding … But the nature of the dream will not appear for us. It lightens the air immeasurably as if it were itself a kind of dawn, but only its form appears, a stillness too elaborate for minds like roots, minds that are roots, to comprehend – (when what we wanted most, of course, was to believe, be loved) – oh comprehension, such a small hissing sound it makes on this still air, that exhalation, little path in its own right the dream lays down ...”

“... If I bring this voiceIf I came backagain when Icome backagain if again it ispossible required withthis voice still this voice so narrow itspassage still untrustworthy, too deep therequest, too slippery theladdering of –what was the tongue –cold – arrowing – may it notbe English – if they inviteme back – some morninglike thisafter histor ...”

“... stillness. Stillness in time. Rich concentrate. Late summer late-day light. Over but not on magenta. Of. Of dahlia-heads. Of serrated leaves trimmed gold. Plush stalk lost-still in non-moment. All awake but no wakefulness. Low. Small. Snug in flooding light. Unwilled. No speed of anything, no, no motion on surface because suddenly no surface, all a mechanism yes but now neither on nor off, & shining, & not even a frill of breeze – as if there had never been time – as if being had never been or not been – no containing, no cause/effect thing, no, all swallowed by unmovingness of all things ...”