The power to move. Row flotilla, a range in the Straits leading once out from a sight we know as a bridge, twice down from a scene in space we avoid when we can. If I remember.
Chopping with a knife from. I.
Blunted tips of things, grace for their suspension. "A wreck on the" empty stream. Before "Alastor." See fortunately. Damp chest of the subject underwater on land. And above a lamp projects what he sees. Barely aware, his arms are lurchings from whose crisp outlines depend two or three hard facts.
Another few steps when he felt.
Recall it "the scene of ..." Leave the sound for a cabin hard by the docks. "The two figures climbed the ladder and, swinging their legs casually over the simple wall, dropped from our sight.
I had thought what I saw would be enough: trains of a late sky, gray or white defining a ground, lists of books I had gathered about me. Documentation sufficient for such traits.
Shifts of packed snow under foot. Arches stretch with voices. Drive and back again.
Took all I knew I had put away as need without time as time itself needs. Core samples, traces measurement requires. And memory makes. Takes strength or abandons it, means as I say now a striking difference.
As once I meant in seeing streets of Berlin, sleep to where all is clear. Cards for film for things I made nothing of, enough for what I know I saw: a church cut off and beside it another, deep blue lights for a memory of war.
Such strict arms forget. Gifts again. And how such. Dreams between. Ask given what it had hidden. As apples on a shelf, still life elaboration represented as such. Sordid walks sorted for talks, one in the place of the other.
To tie what is possible too, a depth. Some lenght, sorts visible. The strain to describe or distort. Scalp a roof of sorts out of sight. Out of mine, such distinct ease.
I had hoped to find sentences a source for all that I was never sure. And if you know I mean what I had never seen, scratches on plaster walls a projection. So simple towns where we never walk, having no needs there. The wind cold within a cheek, within a week forgotten as well.
The only remaining question is what I'm getting from all this: mud, phone calls in the middle of other things (in the middle of other things), reading involving more reading. Two days ago it rained. Pushed far enough, it breaks down. Hidden in holes in the ground, buried to come up somewhere else, some box we can talk about again as a group entering a strange room without a letter of introduction. But does the letter introduce or does it evaluate, hold us out for the ways we handle it.
Treat it as a bridge between here and there, a kind of dam or retaining wall marking the transition from the trail proper to an area of construction. Large machines I could never figure out over piles of things pushing out of the ground.
It calls for training: whistling in the distance telling us where we are, where else we should be, the kind of family we all should have had at the time. A ditch beyond which fields of weeds may be, tractors I hear have been dug up, left behind as something else to get out of.
At a point in the middle what guarantees gone out to other sources she cried as I came in through the door. Yet made up, images drawn freely and simply, what I can make of them as eyes blur in something akin to thought. Such as it is: a draw-bridge up, traffic slow I wanted to pass. And cash on hand, hands in pockets, feet out in front, waiting.
As a point in a crash what lowers gives access. Yet purely abstract, that blue or green depth leaning toward another almost human in his outlines. So he thinks, draws a breath, thinks again, and leaves. We both rode cycles over that same bridge, watching our tires or feeling them take easily the metal they passed over. Pass over water below. Cars a foot away to one side.
Gone or left out. What I had hoped to say a matter of form yet again. Little remains but the matter of that saying. And drift. Awash not of color but blocking color, driving me where I would otherwise want to be. And so forget eyes even as I feel them from inside, a mirror of my own. The strictest profit taken as the bridge, since forgotten.
Twitch in the corner of the left eye calls me to say what I see. What otherwise I would not know to call to mind as a name to give it. Knowing an other word for this act I feel, as I feel but do not know what I call "my stiff neck." The grace or assumption to call it at all.
A layer and who wants the body that is mine or yours forgets at once to look at what it may be doing. Don't you forget it as I wish I could. Or leave it in the tracks of an older look.
Yellow on red I name for a boy I know a toy what would otherwise be a gift he returned that never concerned him after playing in the terms thereof. That is where he would find the terms as he would also find his own name, thus see what I see or say once again. As I would sense what I also know there. Graphs an extension to carry here over into where one of us has been aware. What I call "my hands" when I say I see.
For what he had lost, what formula, something written into the time of writing for a fit. That direction in which it fails as a mark or remark. "Supreme Fictions" given over for another mastery.
As, younger, he dreamed of the figure of a ring in the ground, cleared away the unraked leaves around it and pulled. So the syntax or sense has it, an easy figure for descent or ancestry. "I meant what I said." And linked it to what I saw or what I said he saw. To call it the difference he had been waiting for to talk at all.
And so left it where writing in figures figures for writing itself. The dream then not certain but as a formula or ground for its own recital, that list wherein he grew it and knew it grew him.
As such, a real world.
"By the waters..." where we meant to have slept.
Drains for a row of what leaks from them standing underneath what one finds there. No windows assumed, but frost painted or abandoned. Drips of thaw. The lines therein consumed by explanation.
Perhaps coherence assumed in what I had written but meant to write again when I found time. Candles also melt whatever light is given. Raps, assistance of keys from the hall. A line a day, what smells it means.
Tainted, I still agreed when I could do no more. Sniff transistors. Chips in what consists in or of. Duct flight. Remember the scene behind the library where I tried to run. Tried, that is, to have what I thought of as fun as I had it, took pictures of it. Plumes in a gray air, raw there themselves.
When I had been let in on what secret? Of telling a tale, how it went. Again. Paintings as a cover, ignorant of control. Growth of a market. Rips high what others only walk by.
Rhythms of a dnace acrostic. The wild arrows of being lost in a traffic of sense when we were there ourselves, the sun hanging gray in the sky, no snow in sight. Something occurred, lost on us. Patterns of driving involving us, taken nowhere but here where each is clear to the other.
Skip step.
"I looked through a window, I'm sure. Yeah a window, or a screen was it. But I saw through it, saw, that is, what I'd painted there myself." Down there you turn right to turn left, pass by those drums or pylons again. A little light until a minute ago. Peddle screen or camera attachment, what we see when we go out. Block chords gave way as we turned around once again.
It's all there in the yellow lights of winter, a tether back a month ago for the sense it all made before. And its commands for continuance to an end run out yet again.
Sickly, the other one took the high way, carried his bag for pinecones, the way back for spring. Jumped at the chance.
A dervish if I can presume.
But rooted in such a system, make the second turn when you have the chance for that kind of progress. Synapse of ants glows, a mark in that gap dancing between where I am and where I might be coming again. What escape. A scape of other words driven through to keep or be displaced by oil spots somewhere ahead in a dance of feet and wheel.
A skid in other words into a pale rose of seeing a metaphor for being seen.
Clear through the dots on a screen. Grapevine and standing. A wait for the valley to reach this little height as we find our way clear all the way down.
Or not desert after all, but low mountains of something like sandstone with nothing else there but the road and further on four kinds of lightning, nights on the train defined by that descent.
Grians make a side road when least expected give out to touch another sense, make something of something made up. Just so the need to walk the last ten miles to town to catch a train for the ten miles back. Just so, exactly as I want it.
This thin shift of clouds behind scrub oak. Racoons rummaging in the night for food, flip certainty of light in their eyes. And so an "I" who has to hold that light thus to search out or make a distance. Sounds they make they can afford to miss.
As what I want when I say this, turning it once again in my hands, shifts less for myself than I would have it.
Prospect a return to the more general landscape of a painting, where colors stand for things things won't stand for. Close to the ruins we figured to stand in.
What were they? One hidden in his own promotion, one gravely in a history we invented which stood for us placed in that time. Thus, I said yestserday, pertains to an outside we decline to speak.
The Toltec head, with a roof over it, passes for what I once had in mind. Chichen Itza's august heat in place of Williams' Chapultapec. Whatever else I care to insert when I have finished. And that as well, green and brown, a palpable air to melt into.