Nothing Happened
And then it keeps happening. Like a hole in the middle of
the memory of a field. The interruption of it spreading, widening
out toward the edges. Or is it that the field, receptive,
pours itself into it? Like a consummation. The way a fire
can realize by feeding. What knows a thing better than
what consumed it? Like the deepest active black of the
cast iron pan. Constant reminder; omen of the stove. The dead
center of an inhuman eye. Its iris is my living space; my entire life. Читать дальше...