Plus

~ ~ ~

A silver flashlight bobbed around. It was a weight itself and also a means of searching weight. It was both a thing — a hardware torch — and a thing for hooking light to deeper things. A map of motion sprung from the level of stem and encircling it with

a small and radiant crown. The flashlight hit on a flower. Whorl was a name for a number of things. A small circle completed in a fingerprint. A small wheel in a spinning wheel. A corolla of possible colors. The increasing idea of becoming someplace

else. Foresight had made this appeal but who knew where it would next spread open or what sacrifice it would ask of those who would have stepped up to mind it in its full and unoccupied transparency? There were other places to be. Transparency had

never moved entirely beyond the scope — had sorted through earthbound feelings very acutely in splinters some had more accurately called slivers. That a piano fitted with an apparatus might play itself beyond the roomy absence of whomever.

Dart-shaped holes along the rolls made everything accumulate and play. There were other places to be. This is what the slivers said. Ground would keep requesting but Ground would never compass the request. How had knees bent? What were bird knees

for? If knees were to have a role in locomotion the direction of the knee bend would have had to have been settled far back with reference to affliction. Humility was a map of motion — a piece of the dark one could hope to go by.

We are the trees whom

shaking fastens more

Radiance had never been far from the truth or the riding upward phenomenon figured as gooseflesh or the off chance a seat became available on a northbound train departing a wet city that had now set about to recede as so

many bounces of light. There were other places to be. A seat facing north along a river too familiar to name with a window to the left still traced with water. Time to one’s self thought this was a good sight, a good start towards transparency however impossible

it was generally agreed to be to capture something of there from here. A sliver would be enough. Two slivers would start to motion in that particular way that could universally denote addition, a sign that said in every language put this all together: join it up

and keep all your joinings increasing until you hear the weirdest dearest pioneer singing down the final coming down of sums. Every harm would receive a feather. In the secret reversal of torn, affliction would power flight. Dust would name the particles

now caving into psalm. A song that only a body could make for the outlasting mind of that body. A mind to love and praise the time its body did. The sparest constituents of transparency were these slivers — though so much finer than strings — still

taut and contactable as music in the memory of fingers. How we loved that sound of addition. Each silver lacing through the brain. How it lit through and scrimmed across all the dark cascades we could hope to remember. Our erratic starlings now round

now wheeled at a kiss — a kiss destabilizing the bodies we thought had only been there to work — as shore had worked to water or as shadow had worked to flight. This describing was being. And being was describable or not.