Chartres, grief. cipher swinging high in a vast of manic speed. it was nine, nine becoming ten. it was nine. I shoulder eight around as the one. one was, and two. when the metal frame, the metal bedframe of winter, when the metal bedframe of winter melts. walking night-long, mast-high, reading to the lighthouse to the mat. listenable. fecund. so fecund we have to pill, so fecund we have to titrate. pull, one scale at a time. some doctors, say, too careful, to rue. forehead sticker art, that was three, there now. are too many to count to ten. ten? nine was London, aloud. swimmingly. insatiably. unsubtly naked at the end of a corridor and then. crank, crawling around King’s Cross station. rankle, my way to the Royal Free. why she. the scale hiding in my basement, eight, might be yours too so I’ll ex.plainly like this. curious weather, none of it in snow. so fantastical I can sail. bridge-transitive to in. into waters in April’s last hours, five. only they weren’t alone. didn’t have time. almost punched out and driving into town. Uzes, six. French paper gown, then they knew. what they didn’t. didn’t what they did. cross the street to avoid me and end up as alone. bon voyage. train 4 without a ticket to Paris, vast cathedral of guilehood. the ring, daddy. was taxi fare, to nowhere for hours, until the singsong of the SAMU put me in. there, again. do they care? ask myself: what connects to the soul. what string makes it hang. itself, myself. its grief. I can’t write grace, and all the pebbles they fill you with. no prescriptions for chat. the alms almost out of chink, out of choice. ten? can’t be. or has been. I vastly