Every now and then I find myself drifting down streets I know too well, my throat scratchy at the back, my shoulders high and tight; I find myself finding things I already knew were there, where they were, where I expected them to be – where, nevertheless, I'm surprised to find them. Every now and then my entire situation decomposes. In those thens, these nows, the course I can take is clear and single: ignition. Flame be my weather, let heat's happy crackle expand the narrow way! Such is my mantric gesture, my prayer. I mumble, maunder, malinger. Nothing follows.

MY GLANCE CAN CARRY THOUGHT, AND DOES: ACROSS SHORT SPACE OF WATER TO BLACK PURPOODUCK, WHERE YOU ARE. AGAINST THAT GLANCE COMES SUN, CRUSHING; ALL IS COLOR, OR FLAME WITHOUT COLOR, OR WICK-BLACK, DEPENDING ON ITS RELATION TO THIS LATE LOW SUN. I LAY MY HEAD BACK, GLAD TO FIND THAT THE RISING PLANE OF THE ROCKER RECEIVES IT. EYES CLOSED, ANOTHER RELIEF, THE LIGHT FLOODING THEM DIFFERENTLY NOW. I CHOOSE WARM OVER BRIGHT. HEART DRIFTS, MIND SLEEPS. BODY SLEEPS: PENCIL DROPS FROM LIPS TO CHEST, WAKING ME. BIRD-DROPPING, FALLEN BOTTLE-STOPPER, STAR. MY GLANCE OPENS, TAKES ALL, WRITES YOU BEHIND ALL, CLOSES.