Here it's only recall recalled—no fear of that hope split-keying me half-open. I am stilled, unfloodable, and hinging the days on a mixed clink of hours and pills— two at eight o'clock food then one at ten then clutch in both hands sin that other pill underneath my tongue will I fall asleep without snagging its angle, the dim red of it unexplainable, how my face split, two banks of a river I should have been floating. Well if I am now, will I still be able to leave its waters— sleep but also its many ways that make unmaking, how a word of it makes world, to spite another world, its voices create speakers, create its lives and all of those who watch it. But that's just recall, a sigh, at eight o'clock, two pills flub name to neme at random, how its thought finds my way to another. Stranded, I stare through places I really was, now empty. An intersection— no one waits but me, a cafeteria no food. Somewhere my on my desk there’s this book—a long poem... "the modern love story" wrote one critic, which takes place in an apartment where a woman lived and died. Her lover forces himself to stay there, amongst her things, the outer reflection of an inner life wanting into, out of the prison of lifeless things. He writes this way, that want. He writes out. I want to write this room, at least read where I still can't face the mixed up and down of reals upon ruins of unnamable counterparts. In this apartment where I keep trying to lead my life, I stare through the same snapshot on the wall: Father as a student, his face angled down to a book of the law he obeyed, defended, laid down: slightly blurred, I see him always slightly blurred, as if by chance (... la chance impure ?) I had placed the man at the limits of my vision.