I feel « the uncertainty of appearance in a phrase universe » places, light « looking through it, » I am « passed » and stripped of bearings, grounded to sensory inebriation. Where is this touch to lead, this false demarcation? Skin. Our darkness the opposite of red. Which burns, here, when reaching over left on electric comes to howl and to howl and to…
.......I am not. Or blank as that reproduction of me. Between. An image, an imagined, an imago. Take it back, unveil it, déshabille-toi! The voice is mine and it is not. Mine. Professed rain is only sound inside, from the enclosed here. « There are no moorings in conversation ». This is what she said, I heard her voice. It was other than, credited, solitary within the not arriving demographic of departure. That is, shaking, mine.
.......She may be remembering, I might have been, just a phase. Unverifiable. Tactile as, is: Wary. Tender. Dangerous. Syllabic.
*Quotes + some lines from Susan Howe's essay "Sorting Facts; or 19 Ways of Looking at Marker", pp 304-305.
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