The day they catch up to you, they’ll be sorry.

Progress. What is the shape of this idea, its space and outline. Where does it sit in the endless body we share? Cunningly, an edge. A forgotten stream, that howling dog. The sun behind a cloud, there. And that cloud again, the very same one. I told you about its minutes, every moment that pulled it into day. He said that this is an ineffable gesture, this art. I make invisible sand castles, I make invisible sand.

Forgive me my indiscretions. As a child, a something then and what was it, she. As such a child, I mentioned myself to you and moved gropingly across the floor. I pulled myself into a knot. The same one here, and here.

Strangers say you are beautiful. Strangers walk towards me on the street. I don’t have any money to give them, and they stay put. Somewhere in New Orleans I got lost and stayed. Indolent, of no matter. That city made me ultimately go forward they seem to think. A variety of upward velocities converging ==> a pulse. And what does that progress towards? Dear flat emergence. This is not an address. Not a call. Dear flat emergence. Dear renegade activism. Dear suffering shoe.

Whose endeavors call you there? My own. And the shape of your voice? A rock that was thrown. Where is it consequential? At the place where the sea divides. What time is it? You’ve already commanded it. It took place? Eventually. Without effort. Like a cry.

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