Every yard has its own ruined walls on the border of an attack of nerves.
The hysteria of mountains comes over us and overlooks everyone, every detail.
There are not pages enough. We stack the reams in the barns but the horses will continue to starve. With the remaining tea, we brush our teeth. Every fabric is a hypertextile, a homestead carpet. I place the fingers of one hand on your 4th/5th ribs. Here, bodies imitate systems of ducting. Remarkably, I tap my own fingers with two stern fingers from my other. It would seem that I am nailing my fingers laterally to your thorax. I left the metamorphosis in the car and have to succeed walking. Because of the structure of our lungs, we are made a special case. Meanwhile, the special tropers have their snouts in the mud. Tombstones are dropped on the necks of the surviving. I say your name like it’s a lyric from a song, and draw up a chart of every bird, fish and eel that can be found here. The chickens give up their little wings. The trees are caught in the Autumn. Come Summer, we will start to note again, holding wolves between the pages and the sunlight.