Wa mā adrāka mā l-Lulu? That vital shakti which Wm. Blake called Orc, what makes the heart run, lets its holes work, lets the whales surface & breathe inside my chest which is almost hers, almost hers: identity happens, I become tidal desire without object, gas footlights grab & catch at the hems of me – all flames, like Emma Livry! A woman lives her full soul's size and the man-worlds around her topple like cardhouses, damning. Almost she routs the evil even from the Ripper's own heart but the poison letter of maleness arrives, enfin, as the letter always arrives. «Male journey» comme on dit. Must this letter always arrive? It musn't; with your help, héros, with your ashes and answers, I begin to rip the Jack from my own root. Jack, Mack: stiff, flip-flopping lozenge of green barred with black. Le couteau sur la table disparaît au cours du repas.

Wa mā adrāka mā l-Lady Lazarus? Death finds its way into a body's life like psychology into the jīva but my heart sometimes blinds its fingers' tips down a run of big jade or smoky-quartz beads all the way to a darkness so big it equals all of space and brings calm as it's clear it can't ever end: and the beads were words, we find, when the lamp gets its wick lit & the glass chimney's set. Words made into pomes. Hard linguage-forms exceed the page, strange fruit in excess of her mouth and mine. Slang & psychology mix, promiscuous, with simple sublimity of space in the uneven rise of the lines, my dory good and wet, its seams all proven, off beautiful Nauset. Elle est partie, elle est là.

Wa mā adrāka mā l-Sassafras? Bright insensible steel of the kettle at purr on the meetinghouse stove, quaker-light invading the space like vodka. Sunday morning always resists being kept outside with the dogs and the ducks. I wonder if you understood the way I felt about the stove, an Atlantic, cast at a forge in Portland (556) half a century ago. I remember slipping you a note rolled tight round a heavy little bottle, launching the surplus of me otherward, into the meshes of the Symbolic Order, from my island. Mon naufrage. The streaming light from the window snags its beams against a hip of the kettle, forming a little pucker of emptiness. I stare into this clear glare-knot and it's a tear, a hole, a puncture in the colored field of forms filling the jewel-organs of my sight: stove, pipe, steam, painted & unpainted wood – behind all this rich ecstatic maya-tissue lies a pure spatiality of empty light et ça c'est toi, c'est Toi.