Would that I could engender with my ceaseless pacing, my feet crushing from the unswept floors a vibrant fluid, a giving to ensue, a forming to ensue. Fretful listings, of nerved times, would become rootwork deep in the rug, ‘bellishing the flors and diamonds therein in new and visible verne. My arms’ ceaseless drumming would be found, of a sudden, conduction, of central heating, phone-gleeking, of the symphony hung in the air. Would that my circular step fell into spiralling, depositing my hind to desk and working, and then my hand alone would fret, to pace in the cursive paths my head would demand.
-2001
