the self quietly patches together its narratives and,
like a horoscopist, melts into its stories within sight
of “i am.” elsewhere within its house, it eavesdrops
on dutiful reports swept along by undercurrents.
its prattle within its borders, disguised
from its upper story, humming and losing itself,
it minds its workshop, its setup, that control center
of shadowboxing in a ghost town
and teeming translations that open the door
to the “no” of truth. the self in its haze
is well-meaning in its consciousness
of the beginnings of a protagonist in the author
and of the sun within its naked eye, of torrents
of sediment falling homeward, and of moments swarming
with nebulous runes. it gambles with fountains, heatwaves,
and dissolution. and when a cold snap looms
with its tedious test patterns, the self plays
dumb with the body’s borders and masks
and fabricates its grammar in the dark.
then it supposes wild and artificial horizons,
borders linked to wells, the stuff of color oozing
from a rock, losses and oddities throwing off
their disguises after “once upon a time,”
and the beginning and end of artless fictions.
the tumult besieging the eyes to no purpose
gives rise to the self, which forages
for a reading. for it is inscribed in desire
to call the quarries in question with its words, to evolve
an instant from its substance, and to embody
within its flickering senses an awakened plot.
from “gists of error”