no more a tradesman of suitcases, you’re tracking pages with bone powder in velvet emerald satchels over your shoulder (dislocated by moonlight).
august found you trading your tickets to a broken opera for a stamp of disproportionate magic.
broken things are dangerous: the crystal shot glass under your bare foot, the perfume-tray mirror thrown down cellar stairs.
spinning all those plates of glass and china (all at once), what were you thinking?
this is no prolegomenon for a misplaced cartography.
Your poems are unreal! They grow exponentially greater with time; or does time climb even evermore on them? Welcome back!
Thank you so much for reading and rereading my new poetry/poetics/shifts in which time is a character, the often-truant fourth dimension that can disappear of ensconce itself. We live in layers. Our emotional grid, spiritual scorecard–are grafted palimpsests. I’m in a lovely hospital room. My eyes have been closing, so aside from sending an email–this burnt toast shall hide under hospital blankets like a turtle for awhile. long live philosophy–that you for writing diligently philosophically for all the sheep who need a goat or a [T.S.] Eliot or two!