// stood where Milford Lake would stand, a reserve to the point of bursting; a point of investment on the surface of the land. Days and years of circling and doing across // planes. // is built of this, though one might also deny that this is so. A foundation pulled together by a becoming situation. // is not the land, purchased out from under //— the two in a phase of contact. The bursting reaches me here, now, half a century after. I see the //; occupy the //. Speaking in a history without dialogue; in a space in which // are detached but not alone; in a moment at which // occupies the position of ‘receiver’ and yet // are surrounded by those who might receive. At the edge but not to each other. An intent dragged across a surface; tracing unto //s trace. A doubling back at once into forward and shadow. Fall and enjoy //. A foundation lifted might become anything. Be set down any way. A residual shaped backwards of function. Displaced out of a body. Inside and outside curved in such a way as to be neither; here nor there. So as to present themselves as otherwise. House. Body. Reservoir. Man-made. Here.


A passing sound. A sound of passing. A single motor sound reaching me again and again. Each time from a sequence and I hear mostly its passing. Time going by that collapses within a paragraph upon the page, converted. Into the time of reading. Of sentence. Another sort of passing by. And then again strained motor. Time here. Extensive. Wouldn’t it not feel if not said. Outright. This time. Insert minutes here. A concrete hollow. Now again. Still. Much later. The minutes extending space within my torso. Falling in seesaw. I must wait minutes. Between. I am here and yet empty. I am waiting for Monday. Isn’t a hollow space an abstract one after all—trees, concrete, sidewalk building grass. Ricochet my echo. A little signature carried in the way it carries almost no signature. Speaking of its permanence through its quality of hardness. Of what is poured down, can it be easily lifted or not. At what cost.



Still further. Back again. Allowing a time to hover instead before an eye for whom it would no longer hold true. Perhaps neither has one ever stayed still, looking at looking for long enough. Eventually an entire plane might be covered through a type of reason between recall and what was perceived. A reason becoming intuitive with repetition. In passing by, it shapes by degrees of fade we, I, you, who have perceived, written, been similarly this. And I, such a pronoun, might proceed again. Desiring again. The afterimage present. Of those who are no longer present except. In shadow. A shadow. Somehow. Still. As in heritage and plot. Circling; becoming something else here. A thread extending as long as it’s allowed. One might proceed from it and through it. Elsewhere. Who can say, where this is over. When it becomes empty. How a moment, an area, flips inside out. Through what this dangles on. An intention dragged across a surface. Magnetic in its impulse. It collects. I collect as in heritage and sequence. Plot becoming before I arrive. Unaware. A pendulum set in motion. Mustn’t we proceed. [ A tone now sounds. ] An arc cascading whence; where. At which point any moment removed causing. Contingent collapse. A cup of tea we drink a coffee. We drank.

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