From its own decay, it finds joy | and vanishing is its guide | The splendour of a wedding and of a sea, with the white foam-white, with the white a bridal white, and the blue the capping dome of a cloudless sky in summer, over the meadows and after the wine, and the white | of your eye | and the white of the horses | connect, though you will never | be sure how…

It is a matter of revelling | Certainly, there are reasons for it, but these cannot | entirely explain its ethereal glory, the mood it has | of a calm day in a still room with | two children | bowed, absorbed | over a book or a phone, and the sunlight | seems to fill each atom completely with a sense of | space and ease, there is | no force in it, existence | has no need of alibis today, and you | can stay here, if you want, and sleep with me.

Because we have the time, we have the leisure | It is not to do with the quarts or the watts, not to fuss over pumps or cylinders | it doesn’t | dig with its bare hands, anymore | desperate for roots | looking for shelter from the cold and snow | If it thinks of the dreams of those days, it does so | in metaphors, playfully | or to experiment | with attitudes and options | Style is its apparent necessity | for substance, it has | trends and fads and | the glittering debris | of freedom | Its affluence | trees out | it still has nightingales, it still values the young

Supremely articulate, it has no end – and yet, as in a riddle, is ending always | Think of fireworks, think of petals | Think of what it asks you to think | Follow its tributaries, follow its tweets | Its horses rush down from the heavens, today they are rain | so malleable are its organs, so diverse its agencies | It clips and splices into each article | a tiny sliver of infinity, the gap between | forgetting and knowing (for instance), between | rock and Rococo | Upon an ottoman, so idle! | with a cornucopia of books, lifting one, tossing it aside, raising another…

It accretes itself, builds out from encrustations of jargon and slang, the hip and the square, the raw and the cooked | With each instant, it extends with life its possibilities for comparison | it burrows off into diamond arteries of artifice and specialisation | goes missing for years | über-geek in ecstasy of task and invention | bearded and monomaniac excludes the magnolia and the passing cars | focuses | on the curious hybrids in the labs, the oceans of code and proteins | generates more and more complex laws for more and more complex societies of more and more complex individuals with more and more complex psyches and senses | of doubt and identity | for these, its fertile abundance | is a maze and a co-incidence, but what a | strange co-incidence! | Abrupt

transitions are inherent within its sleek modus operandi | its cafés are full, nightclubs rammed | subatomic particles have their sneaking | secrets and mystique, it has no | qualms about misleading you | for as long as the money holds out and the need to banish the fear of the stale and the old and the known | grips us | novelty will hold sway | the perimeters extend, the style of barrier | increase and the number of barriers | increase, including | the number and style of barriers | seen to fall | it is | talking in its sleep | it’s just | so easy!…

The cults proliferate | the priests don | fine suits | display | emblems of their order | and the people follow them | into their respective enclaves and cadres, divisions and folds | find themselves upriver | find themselves in strangers’ bedrooms | holding strange guns | annihilating or embracing strangers | find themselves lost in personal crises | it offers them only | limited infinity, then | given | the factuality of bodies and the limited time | but this | is for another day | one more | dreary | because today | is for pleasure and a very particular manner of forgetting | the bliss of chopping away certain | relations and obligations and | instead | enjoying the fête | the blunder and trumpet of the elephants | cry of the hawkers | jewelled | costumes of resting acrobats | smoking at the back of their tent | talking about the weather and the stars, and the take


from the sequence, sentence (2012–present, unfinished)