With the hand there is always an immersion, an invasion of space, a reaching toward and retracting from things that differ drastically in terms of personal and public space. When reflections enter the scene, when there is suddenly another form of one's self, the immersion doubles and this has always been an obsession of mine, especially in accordance with the hands, which not only become the elements of creation, in terms of most arts, but are also always the first thing to move, as if there is an invisible extension that actually has the ability to reel things in.

Nothing Particularly Local Going On

by Tyler Flynn Dorholt

We are losing the presence of what is unless			in its disappearing	 			    we	can
unname that which slips a fog down into
our grounding.

Power				because			after naming the fog it left my sign and is leaving
                finally				        the dusk.
				
I render tenderly the fog an absence, lean a hollow out.

That the fog saw the singular end of the lake and took to the concept of the field—that house to home
going—where I alone know and in
a move mean to grow into a stance that keeps expanse intact.

The fog being the lack of what the lake would say to a train that passes, passes out in place   in     place
of.

Each turn the fog takes interrupts itself because I hold it whole.
That on the lake I moved the trees from sight into thought and out.

How I will manage to reappear in what I speak from after I dock this boat, flush this fog.
How this possesses me in my having possessed it.

In speaking I end contours, close selves—home-know—where I am prone to go and from a stance
leave: leave a lasting low glow from
the small lift a height enlightens: the expanse, it slows.

We are loosening the essence of what is unless, in its disappearing, we have a way of rounding back,
back to that which is grounded,
a name claimed as to call again.

When I moved the trees it was because they were distressed by the obscurity of their leavings.
Fog picked up in a pitch and from a breeze familiarized before the seize.


In not moving the trees how their leavings would have parched the object, signaled the end.



The faculty of leaving, how I break it off, what this boat takes in that an only;

secondly, how to echo a hollow, strip a branch before shape is had.


We are losing the presence of what is unless, in its disappearing, fog destroys itself as soon as I see—
latchkey—where I am lake-zoned

and in a row about the space, in place, of knowing out, quite in.

Possibility—to presence—I pose for you an essence.

Each wave a lake from                               		I am move unto.

But I needed the fog gone, the trees aside and the leavings let be.

Motor done and boat docked I walk a dock-top in a toe-tap through the fog-gone.
I find dusk down in the thought out thus a presence in.
I moved the trees I took the fog.

To a nothing name a house from fog in a field does home.

I spoke forward to the thing and there a name coming from my forward came.
In that the train passed where in its absence we placed it in,
in placing in a leaving as a going home

I house a fog alone outside my.

In place of claim

a name again.