Remembering, yes you may remember, all it would take is stretching out
the flower folded between the pages of that book on the third shelf
attach the photos in those stretched out folds that open like funnel-shaped 
mouths of smoky faces and places	 no one to block the entrance
of fear 		keep the threshold between the coming
twilight and the light	let it be blinded in the rhythm of the eloquent hole
it would be like unlocking the endless aquarium from the boulder
weighing down on what is no longer here or there 	where the mind
that long perforated ledger has held on to all the minute anthills
of signs that mean nothing unless you read them backward
all the unfinished things 	the extraordinary formalities
of encounters 		the wonder of absolute happiness
everything is written there	 everything hangs on a shiver
light is like a cloud	 a home ghost
an ectoplasm of stories if only I were able to read
if life is somewhat blind and writing somewhat
perceptive where writing is not life 
what does it see 	if life is naked what else does it see
nakedness aside	 the elimination of nakedness
wouldn’t that be perchance the very elimination of life
of truth itself devouring and remaining silent
traversing life passing through it only to find
or not find 	digging down the floor into the concrete
into everything ever harder and not finding 	digging into the 
tar into the hardness of nothingness and not finding the nakedness
of life	the light bearing sharpness of writing that digs
and does not find the shapes of nakedness because the naked
is by its very nature predominantly shapeless and the shape
of the search is somewhat blind and more than anything else 
learns to let itself be travelled through
all that is unlived to be archived between feasible and nothing
cleanses me and shapes me but not from here 		in the mind
the rhythm of images 	stripped of limits keep morphing 
dismayed return upon themselves like arches of porticoes
getting lost cleansed of errors 	no violence
to refer to 	no end of hospitalization to wait for
and it’s like flashes of conversation with the tree in the courtyard
responding to the chatbox 	something different from the cogito
and even from the morning’s oneiric residue	the stem cell skin
multiplies the dimensions 	swarms wander in indecidable pure 
geometry	colors as if torn apart by lightning 	not copies not
afterlives not snatched-up programs neither lapses nor defections
the exact rosary of all that is unlived which is leafed through 
in the mind to cleanse and shape 	yet not exactly
from here
because solidity is after all just a matter of scale
were I small enough I’d slip through the gaps between the atoms of the desk 
my elbows rest upon further down between the atoms of the floors of the building
I live in 	of the ground this 1960s apartment building stands pensively on
and still without insulation 	between the atoms of the Earth’s crust of its remote
viscous crystallized iron core 	between the interstices of the titanic
structures of space until I would spin among filaments of hydrogen 	and perhaps
I would finally understand dark matter		 how much it differs or aligns
with the matter of my heart 	or perhaps even the face
of a different kind of emptiness 	if something whatever it may be
moves in sync with galaxies too far apart to influence one another
I would know a different kind of fear an endless plummeting that has the same
vector as the ascent rather than this lesser fear 	never small enough
to slip away between the distances in the atoms of myself 	leaving at the end that solidity 
is merely a matter of appearances
the depths of the year do not lie in the time 	dazzling with lime and falls
not in the time 		it seeks to meet-up with the home ghost 
after it has been raised with circumlocutions repeated every day with long
fishing lines cast backward to retrieve objects immune to exhaustion
to wear and tear 	plated flakes 	scrolls 	billowing swaths of fire unfueled
by milestones	pillars jugs of recriminations	 always torn asunder
to recover who we are		 only by staying can one drink from this spring
only by leaving is thirst an offering 	to leave to stay next to the echo
distance is a language a geometry 	golden ratio compared
to the remaining line 	a hazy score that draws into song
the ghostly home 	the house all eyes and arms stacked towers of 
discontinuous sequences 	chronological order is a tangram heron it eludes me 
every night	as well as the order of the arrangement 	in the game of musical chairs 
one chair is always missing	therefore we keep spinning despite the liquid dripping 
from the joints		despite