Penelope

When we were people around trees I didn’t take the tree too seriously I knew it had a heart and that I was one, that was my magnetism pre-time lit up. Then we came to sit around the voice and with it a body electrified torn asunder the tree tore from its roots our heart as I knew none of my companions now and they knew not me. So I followed the tree. I would go as it went and where it went at first I was blind to, I heard some things, yes. I heard the speaking heart that was inside no longer, that from its distance said go on faster and again and soon I began to use my eyes, needling my hands I mean, I began to weave and in the weaving I was assured for there I was to see.

Evelyn

 something re-claimed. I know not what. 

the appearance

alive. Alive! concretizing, or not. is that how to picture a woman named 'daisy'?

I believed I had a fair understanding of W. G. Sebald until I read his biography and saw the black-and-white snapshot of him as a young man standing thigh-deep in a river, topless in wet jeans with a deep tan, defined muscles, and a dagger in his hand.

Birthday cesaree

Walking out along peninsula the jetty we are the waves great limestone buildings no stucco sta cah toe and water crashing in crashing too strong the water green and stone browning in the sun how bright can you see this is time we tell us and then again then 

la bouche

 again on the full. and again. Ogham. I left lineation to the rest. the eyelid or the other one, the fist 

Joyce Cary Carey Joyce

Spliced the eye

Sees still as two 

So they say

The open has begun

Three (A pittance in the shade)

(Like a sienese above his station 

we had foresworn our migration

off or into night)

Silent and without fear, and here, the good, 

the air field, muskets, beans shuck whole

A pit The pit that

makes a wife she and her her 

the children seven years behind an

adorable of twenty, to pocket slip &

take them with me especially eldest camille of el less

spelling off the coffee cup she tells me

For distinction

So secure her cottage animation whereas

Francis Ponge I don’t write down as with

Turbyfill or Bonnefoy my eyesight going

All thoughts going

At this late age, 

best forget it