Archives for posts with tag: sentence

We are close now. Up the steps from the main forecourt, to the grand entrance, opening onto the east, north and southern sides | The magnificent doors in gilded bronze | took only 15 years to complete | set in a frame of rosettes and lions’ heads | We pass into the splendid vestibule, and then on | through the famous “Bouquet of Lilies” doors | surrounded by their frame with stylised suns and various plant motifs | into the Hall of the Ancestors | Our feet click and echo on the parquet floor, the scent of varnish is overpowering | drowning the perfumes of the flowers on display | as if the living flowers, too, were somehow coated in varnish | At the end of the Hall of the Ancestors, we approach a tremendous pair of alto-relief silver doors | nearly 17 feet tall, and weighing 20,000 pounds | it is rumoured they are very difficult to close once open | Proceeding, we pass along the capacious, rather clinical connecting hallway, which was inserted into the building during the major reconfiguration of 1971–73 | The architects’ austere modernist aesthetic is evident in the pure white walls, and the white ceramic tiles of the floor, the side doors in African blackwood, their fittings in platinum | The hallway is very long, rumoured to be the longest in the world for a building of this type | In some sections, the lighting is subdued; in other sections, the lighting is very bright | We are walking for a long time, through opened pairs of more doors of African blackwood, and the effect is of moving through a rather dreamlike confection of a hospital, a lush but entirely anonymous corporate headquarters, with a hint, also, of an art installation, or a film set | Arriving at the end of this corridor, we find the discreet, black oak door, in plain frame, through which, in their time, some of the most famous and powerful figures in history have passed: this door may only be opened from the further side, there is no handle facing us — fortunately, the door was open, though unguarded, and we passed through

 


from the sequence of 100 poems, sentence (2012–2018)
(this poem, August 2014)

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The angels of order are endlessly seeking to assert a reality, but all they succeed in doing is constructing boxes or pockets of emptiness | a sublime domain | beyond the powers of assertion to enter | As the angels of order proceed, so moment by moment the pockets of assertion collapse, thereby instituting a new vacuum | the willow trees moving in the wind | Just as we are created by the angels of order, so we are addicted to their activity, which has become a form of drug or obsession for us | Simultaneously an opiate and a stimulant, this SENTENCE holds us

In imbalance, our gift | What the sea gives to our touch, and what our touch / gives to the sea | Falling into a hazy sleep | a gorgeous inequality / Perhaps in a kiss or a shy gesture | a secret desire to rectify | towering differences, the snowstorm inside the moment, the moment | rushing through the years

 


from the sequence of 100 poems, sentence (2012–present, in progress)
(this poem, June 2012)

It is an offence against life to remain consistent | a joke in poor taste not | to grow embedded | with contradiction || The glittering circuits of syllogisms | break or complete themselves | twinkling on and off | In the forest beyond the city limits of SENTENCE | a MINDLESS darkness grows as night falls, and a MINDLESS light swells | as day arrives || The delicate necklaces of syllogisms | their clasps | locked or open | rest at the bottom of the pool || Carp with sumptuous metallic silver scales | are bifurcated through | with signs and the signs | split and shimmer | the lights on these scales | sparkling and rifting | fray and shatter | are dubbed and re-dubbed | echo and splinter | decay and erode | breed and vanish and | recur in | reconfigured iterations, and the carp | glides on through the water with its | spiritual signature | written into our eyes and | clinging, like tiny lemon-yellow snails | on the undersides of the lush green | leaves | of our dreams || Long, long ago, SENTENCE called the faithful to its centre, and set | a pattern for the stars and | laws for the atoms to obey, but now | I live in a gun-runners’ suburb | among rusting cars and fires | and here, magic is practised, the genies of assignation and ascription | work their hesitant and ephemeral miracles, spells | all fall under for | who can escape the confines of a moment, and who | can endure a place without names | a world | without pieces? | And thus, we follow the dancing line, the | invisible voice as it | apportions a defile | through which we go | perhaps half conscious of the subtle and manifold and perpetual | incantations of the angels of order who | neutrally and without motive or end | act us into being and allow us to become en-mazed | by reactions we believe are | actions | drifting through the city | an hypnotic state | unresolved | everything floating | beautiful and indefinite | our whole lives performed upon a stage | of half sleep | every clear and perfect detail | the workmanship | of ancient spirits, and the streets | the forests, the seas, the heavens, all of it | the sum of an intricate and inexplicable arrangement of | slanted illusions || In a labyrinth so translucent we do not even perceive its | existence | we move and believe in freedom or | mostly just | don’t care

The desert begins its long rise, its return | Having vanquished it for so long into an oasis | the antennae of the city, its lovers and artists, loners and murderers | tremble and sense | a new thirst beginning to invade their mouths and hearts | In half sleep, in twilight | in cool places at the edge of time | in moments of | epiphany or stupor | the shadows of the wings of the god of silence | pass over them, and they begin to yearn | to get out of here as soon as they | possibly | can

 


from the sequence, sentence (2012–present, in progress)
(this poem, June 2012)

It no longer simply gives shelter — it no longer ‘simply’ gives anything — but offers itself as a mirror or a labyrinth, as a beautiful obstacle, as an object like a stone inside your heart | With reproducing “and”s and “also”s and “but yet”s, its maze-like structure, reminiscent of the rippled, convoluted surface of a human brain, invites us further and further into a complexity of folds and planes and voids, and artifacts that are neither planes nor voids nor folds | It has left behind the literal world of the desert, the bare place of sand and water, the functions of shade and sleep, and commences to expound itself in luxuriant metaphors, hollows inside the eyes that refuse satiation and floating assignations, which, prone to the next day, and a changed prospectus, create the mirage of an infinite ambiguity, a terminal inability to focus, an inherent shake, wobble and blur | No longer content with mere utility, it begins to delight in decorative swashes and ornamental gestures, and develops an extensive network of styles and manners, which in themselves begin to resemble mazes, requiring study and classification, mapping, debate | However, it is no longer flourishing: although it continues to grow, it starts to exhibit signs of a certain staleness and fatigue | Decay has arrived, not merely as the inevitable expression of a natural order but as an event artificially willed, consciously constructed | For a while, this decadence is not a problem, but then parts of the maze, weakened by disinterest or over-specialisation, troubled by irony, debased by a facile intention, begin to fragment off, to become sub-mazes, secrets, gardens, fetishes…

They attend the play, and they comment on the production | The set design, the standard of the acting, the director’s interpretation | When the last performance is over, and the theatre is empty, the rows of seats gather a kind of hush to them, and the building forms an egg of potential | This happened a long time ago, and the play has since fallen out of fashion / Does it haunt a single neuron? | Does some faint trace of a single over-wrought soliloquy / scrape against the moon and cause that planet to stir and shift its light by some infinitesimal amount? || To the human mind, all things are toys, and the world of the past is like a giant toybox | filled with inert and staring dolls, their eyes | awaiting the glow of recognition and return, the caress | of a flawed and passing god | the privilege | of seeming useful

 


from the sequence, sentence (2012–present, in progress)

At once, divides. As a sea, with wake. Dacha, from desire. In the forest, of your youth. In the glade, the horses | clouds of small flies | and the light like milk | pouring. In the clearing, of your memory. In your memory | of desire. At once, closes. And is seamless, after the episode. Like a sky, after our glance. Like a love, after our love.

Put flowers into it. Sunflowers, in winter. Like lumps of bell or | dead dragons’ heads | hung.

Put your sex into it. Frizzled | withered | of the brown plain | the grey plain | in winter and sometimes | there is snow. Long, long way to walk. Clump, in your boots. Stubborn old child. Eyes like angels counting on their fingers | yet to learn | of evil. Hands | caged in unknown | tensions: hands, very soft, like angels dying in their sleep. Ignorant of the shapes | of all the caresses they may form | the gates | they have not but must | open. Perfect. Like a sky, during our love. And the light | just light | with a little wet | salt | pouring.

Put your back into it. Labour, to a stench of bitumen in April. Your thoughts | scrunch like shovels | scattering gravels: put your back into it. Hunch your shoulders | drift from | job to | job. Squat down in your own | heart | brooding and mute | observe | how the moments are polished and | cut | each to an acme | each | like a view | from a tall tower, looking down | over the brown plain | the cold plain | frozen | wishing to be | completed by snow. Perfect. Like a glance, as carbon goes by | hooded in a jewel | in a mask | of diamond. Hostage | to loss. Unable | to accept | defeat. Like a god, after neglect. Like a science, after a new science.

A new scene. Feet hung down like the heads of dead geese on | long white necks. It allows | you to travel. At once, with ships. As a sea, with wakes. Find a | private Russia. The ideas | fail here, you feel | the immunity of peasant boredom, how time | inoculates them | with the summers’ | towering volumes of | sky | a bastion | of empty blue | no thought will ever take, no | word could dint | the land beneath is | littered with “fucks” like | glistening needles | like stalks of straw | you | lie down at | nightfall | in the stables of your own heart | and feel how | all the horses of your youth | are beginning to | run.

A new sea. At once, divides. You’ve aged. Love has re-made you | taken a little | of the god out | put in | pinches of | children’s laughter. A land, clustered with the word “BUT”. The virus of roads | has not left you.

Put journeys into it. Teeming with junctures, it has become a semapolis. Showman, it performs | the old routine | miracle | of being one and at once | divides. In a sideshow booth | in a side-street afternoon | soda and no sex and flies, and the empty bottle | in your hand for no reason, and then | the evening | in a no-horse town. An imponderable melancholy, like joy | after true joy | like a good lie | after the best lie.

Foolish old child. Mouth | very quietly | humming with the | millions of words to come. Brow | troubled | scooping up the pearls of | teenage troubles | chucking them in a bucket, see | how they turn to | atoms | obedient | going off to school | to classes they can’t abide | like History or Latin.

At once, reforms. As a sea, with wake. Put your | mind to it. As it creates, so it | vanishes. Dacha, from desire. And the light like truth | sculpting the glade | the horses | in the heat | their heads | hung down.

A new scene. In the petrified forest | silent | imprints of birds | sing. It has become | a habit of ends.

This is a bad day. People will die in housefires, and you will never | write this poem. To have fought so long | for your place in injustice – is this all there is? The weather is no longer | the weather of desire | of sunflowers | of glorious | marks. Imagined | disaster. Already, heading out of here. At once, you can’t remember. At once, it closes. Like a sea, with wake. Like a book, with story.

Figure it out. It has no need for you, and yet | waits for you. Beautiful, and flawless. Like a sky, filling with dawn. Like a love | before our love.

 


from the sequence, sentence (2012–present, in progress)

Midway, we paused, turned, and looked back down the staircase | It was a tremendous effect, a kind of cataract of white marble, spilling away in mathematical fashion, and narrowing into the gloom below | I felt a little dizzy, put out my hand to cling | to the cool, smooth stone of the bannister | After having taken in this sight, we returned to the long climb | Arriving at last at the top, we passed through the “Doors of Regret”, and began to ascend the famous flight of steps beyond | Built in the ninth century with 4,500 narrow steps and 13 stories | the Kem-in-on Stairs, zigzagging up a sheer face, offered a tremendous spectacle | It took us over half an hour to complete the climb | and on the spacious landing, we took advantage of the rows of handsome Empire bergère chairs | set against the wall | Our guides | highly knowledgeable, and indefatigable in their determination to inform us | of all the details of the treasures contained within this fabulous building | explained that the chairs were c. 1815, of gessoed and gilded beech, upholstered in a sky-blue silk | with ornate embroidery in golden thread | of laurel wreaths, stylised suns and eagles | designs so rich we felt embarrassed to use the chairs as seats, and not to stand and contemplate them as the works of art they undoubtedly were | Higher, then | Our footsteps echoing on the bare marble floor | then muffled when we stepped onto rugs | we left the landing, via a handsome set of plain doors | coated with a thick cream gloss | and began to go up the carved wooden staircase beyond | the curved bannisters and lush deep velvet red of the steps | producing a sense of the grace and inevitability of nature | of organs swelling and enclosing | as we ascended | via a sombre, somewhat blank and secretive side-door | the sandstone spiral of grey-brown | a shell-like whorling and steep incline | around the central spine of ancient build | diverted from the usual route by barriers with signs informing us | of restoration work | we passed through a service entrance | into a shadowy stairwell, musky with several different odours | tobacco, steamed cabbage, fresh paint, even a scent of human urine | and as we went on up the stairs | we passed several rooms | mostly with the doors closed | but some with doors ajar | and one room in particular | struck us as oddly desolate | unoccupied, with stepladders, brushes, and dust sheets laid on the floor and over furniture, the walls scraped and prepared | for fresh rolls of paper | This staircase grew darker and darker | the higher we went | and yet there was no sign of a ceiling above us | or of a skylight | and we wondered if now was the time | to finish and go back, but | after some delay | we decided to proceed | and having negotiated | a narrow gallery | possessing a fine balustrade | of wrought iron | decorated with a motif of tulips | we found ourselves faced by another majestic flight of stairs | of supple marble | pale in the twilight | flowing upwards as far as we could see | Undaunted by the scale and magnificence of the staircase | we continued on our way | though alone, now, without our guides

 

 


from the sequence, sentence (2012–present, in progress)

At last the time for simple beauty comes | away from the immense distraction | of responsibilities | The walks through the forests | the spicy scent of pine cones | the children running along peaty paths, the girls in silk frocks | sleeveless | one in apricot, and one in lime | punctuating the quiet with squeals and screams, but then, moments later, with the grave | peace of their study | as we come across | fly agaric mushrooms | with their fairytale fever | their hectic | flagrant | drive to flirtation | The girls peer, fascinated, at these | deadly abodes | of goblins and toxins | Our lectures | are awed, but delicious to us, as we warn our children | of the poison within | such sweet | exteriors | The shadow of our fears | and hence of our | purpose | intensifies | Then we walk on | and the fairies and the elves | creep out | from under the trees and | watch us go || So, this is the famous “present”, a time we had almost forgotten: now we indulge ourselves, taking advantage of all its amenities, and those other, implied regions of time, the past and the future, we allocate to them | a condition of | sumptuous ethereality || Our love is a reasonable beginning, we are sure | a first step | a template | The failure at the edge | is not our | concern | quite | We deserve | some rest from the restless | quizzing of our own | spirits | Today, we may bathe ourselves in the most perfect and calming | oblivion | of them all | This day | is ours | and in its | heart | we may relax, and grow small: | we may forget | the others

They know that all the time, the armies of the god of silence are assembling on the plain, yet who can blame these innocents for their desire to escape SENTENCE’s “labyrinthine” web of responsibility? | Pull on the thread of a single word, all the other words | shift slightly | and some of those other words | lead to places, perhaps, we do not wish | to go || Yet is it not also true that we should honour the beauty of the moment, pay proper attention to the details of the life before us? Even though | the city is imperilled and the threat | grows greater with every instant, is it so foolish | to bend down and peer | at the frost in a spider’s web, or to tell our | serious-eyed children | how migrating swallows | sleep on the wing?

 

 


from the sequence, sentence (2012–present, in progress)

With increasing fragmentation into neuroses and suburbs, hotspots and passions | fracturing east | devolving into sunsets or stock markets | the maze of orchids and techno | subplots or side alleys | the notion of a state or a grand reality begins to erode and the public realm is lost, becomes a rare or mythical beast / glimpsed in a forest of haze / a dragon or white leopard || SENTENCE no longer belongs to anyone, and its cornucopia of cities spills and sprawls into the electric complexity of a single head, a glimpse of seagulls in a blustery wind | in a bleached photograph from 1958 / an esplanade in an English seaside town, on a day in summer / forgotten by everyone || The more, the merrier the saying goes, but | Three’s a crowd | In this flawed synopsis, the individual begins its long rise, a figure haunted by society, its SENTENCE fraught with competing or ill-defined or / contended or / gloriously unconstrained or / deformed meanings [and/or], each one a home to which one never gets back, a lover one casually discards but then, later / when one tries to remember / remembers as beautiful || Solitude and anonymity, those two astonishing conditions, affect these increasingly labyrinthine individuals, and they tremble as their commercial existence, their value in terms of capital, fluctuates | moment by moment | Clouds of money cover the sky, and the flags hang limply on the flagstaffs, a great storm is coming or so / I’ve heard

Whole lives lost in illusion / whole cities vanish into mistaken aims / Is it the case that a few words might have saved them? We cannot know, and in any case | the words were never said, or if they were, were never heard

 

 


from the sequence, sentence (2012–present, in progress)

With no anchor, it is a ship, drifting.

With no captain, it is a crew, seeking orders | within itself. The ship is attached to the stars | by means of the journey, the journey is attached to the lack | of a port, the fact | of the sea.

With no sea, it is a wave | passing through space.

With no song, it is a Siren | mutely staring | at a Greek ship | the oarsmen rowing, staring back at her.

Its surface? Honed to a mirror’s facility (with no ship | drifting). | Across it the world is sliding | back and forth | we are so | used to the movement, sometimes | we hardly notice | how the cars slide, how the trees | slide, the | sky slides.

Nest of atoms | a bird has sought rest here, bees | have sought rest here | wrapped themselves in a limit, but the limit | has no limit and the bird | sings for no limit, the bees | are entered into the mill of their honey for no | limit. Sensing this, we hurry to call up beauty (with no | captain, by means of the journey) | we must lash down the stars, by means of the storm | we arrive at our wreck, the wreck | is attached to our | failure to land, to make | landfall. In a crack in the tree | hollowed by lightning | wild bees have sought their share | of the dream, the play | is attached to our orders and we, too, sing and surrender to the production of nectar. The dream | deepens and the ship begins.

Its surface? Impossibly smooth, across it | all the things of the world are skating, sliding, slipping. | With no end, the stars are attached | to the burden of the journey, by means of the journey | the new day is sought, the sun | attached to no limit | burns and we stare at a Siren, crouched | on her island of bones. She looks | tortured, by means of her silence, her pain | is amplified and her routine | of agony and thirst | strikes us mute, we | feel sorry for her who would | by means of her song | lure us to her and melodious | slaughter, with no | song, she hungers and, parched of blood, writhes, it is | her part, therefore, it is | our part, with no | play to enclose us, only | the song of a mistle thrush | in a landowner’s woods | only the soft | assemblies of the bees | making of their hive | a nest of atoms.

With no voice, it is a song | attached by means of the journey to | nullity.

With no anchor, it is a wreck, drifting | by means of the currents, it is a wreck | drawn to an island, compiling a home.

With no song, it is a voice | croaking. With no time, it is a clock | neither still nor in motion, it is no clock, attached to the wreck | by means of a nullity | with no voice, it is a song | wandering, seeking a throat, with no | anchor.

We row, and our ship | resides in the classical | we row and our hands | no longer blister. When we come to an island | to find fresh water | a new | order of paths begins, we sing and surrender to the consumption of nectar, with no | limit, we | move on | the island | is attached to the stars, and the night | holds us, but is no mother. We remember the Siren, we forget | our purpose in coming here. The purpose was attached | to the moments, to commands, the moments | have slid away | across this, the surface, the commands | have been wrapped in leaves, and cooked | on a wood fire, we may call this | an idyll, we may make this | our hope. In the morning | I remember the gates | to the village church | the steep damp | green of English age and timber | of graves | slumped and leaning, sliding | with the ivy across | this, its surface | the song of a mistle thrush | from a landowner’s woods, by means of a memory, I am attached | to a past, I recall my labour | to reach the next lover | how she waited for me | by means of the journey, how as she waited | by the old church gates | she held in her hands | a small song | wrapped in lilac mittens, so my youth | slowly escaped me, and I woke | alone, on the island, how I slept | by means of a nullity | how I forget.

Its surface? Infinite, with no subject to geometry.

Its surface? Infinite, wrapped in the clapping | of slender hands | clad in lilac wool, and the cold, damp | northern air…

Its surface? Finite, a clatter of limits falling, in this case | like sticks from a bag.

With no praise, it is a pure | song held up | I hear the oars | biting through waves, by means | of the dead, I | clatter on my island | this is what I own, I long | for the voice of a mistle thrush | can’t you | hear?

Her lover is unshaven, his stubble | scratches her cheek, he has no | aim, he drifts through life, looking for thrills | a humble beast | researching the next | source of his slavery, she | sighs and orgasms, he | grunts and falls | back into that space he | only recently vacated, has it | changed? | Attached to no | thoughts, he is herded | slowly through malls | slowly through offices, toilets, beaches, she | despairs of the love | she has come to feel for him, this | jovial | slave | cigarette in one hand, phone in the other | ordering drugs, grinning with such | pointless boyhood, where can she | go that is not | this ruin?

In a storm, the thunder | sets off car alarms | right down the street and in | neighbouring streets | the rain plunges and the horses of the rain | gallop faster and faster, for a moment | she loves her fear and the chance it gives her | to leave her heart and be another.

The rain goes on falling, has it lost all its horses?

He chomps his lips and murmurs | something fretful into the ceiling, churns and | slips off back | down the burrow of his warm sleep, and she | is left waiting on the surface. The room | is very still, except for the rain.

Through the semi-darkness, she looks down at him.

The dream deepens, and the ship begins.

 


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

A bar in Mirage Q. And later, a bed in Mirage R. A dream in Mirage !. Waking, slowly, in Mirage B.

The formation of bubbles blown from a plastic dipper. Elongated, iridescent aubergines, tubers of soap and breath. A kind of tent of vacillation pitched in air. That eliciting of volume from a plane, kinda mysterious. Up out of nothing, so one is a sheik of a toy desert.

My work will never be understood, or certainly not in time for me to get my Nobel. No tenure, no Faber, no dinner-table talk. No book club. There won’t even be attention enough to huddle my bones in a brief obituary. My subject is the provisionality of subjects—the vulnerability of each subject to another (in fact, every other) subject. It’s probably the kind of writing that can only exist in a wealthy, “advanced” society: it’s an orchid beauty, cultured from a hothouse enclave, impossible in the streets. Decadent, I would say, to a certain extent. That’s not my fault, exactly. But it’s not what could be wanted. It just happens to be true, and — in a modest, shrug-the-shoulders, yeah-but-we-sort-of-knew-that, right-before-your-eyes, ubiquitous fashion — profound. But people want a practical truth, something they can use, something personally relevant — which is perfectly understandable, and warm, and human, and my work is cold and, in a way, elegantly brutal.

Unshaven when I wake in Mirage B. In a creased tuxedo, smelling of last night’s perfume, a detail from a 40s’ pulp novel. The vertigo of nostalgia for love already past.

Adjacency, the situation of adjoining or preceding or succeeding or remote subjects. So, it could be the death of the crowned head, and then the train wreck, and then the price of wheat or gold, or bread, or the desperate hustle of a game-show host, like Gustav in my story.

It could be anything, it can’t be nothing, and that’s it.

There’s nothing more to say, really — and that’s how we move on, finding new ways of saying that there’s nothing more to say, or saying the “nothing more to say”, either consciously or unconsciously (mostly the latter).

They’ve been doing a lot of work on Mirage Q. Refurbishment. Securing the fabric. It has nice lighting, now, very subdued. The furnishings are muted, subtle. There will be so many stories.

It’s right that it comes to this — to the personal, the individual, the self-absorbed. More orchid specialisation. I suppose a protestant impulse to claim ownership of meaning, as against the catholic retreat or storing of meaning in the hands of an elite. The platonic refrigerator of meaning, where ideal signs preserve their eternal values in an unadulterated space, a dimension of discretion. Stasis and freezing. The church guards the relics. The protestant impulse reserves for the individual the struggle with meaning. The individual is prioritised. Meaning is privatised. Or that’s the illusion. This is what they declare in Mirage !. Of course, across the sands, in Mirage Q, they dispute all such notions.

To stick with Mirage B… Their sentence is highly sensitive, very delicate, deeply cultured — and it’s the culture that gives the sentence its base, sets it four-square, permitting the intimate and gentle excursions to the bedroom, the foyer, the theatre, the hospital, the crematorium. Their sentence is the result of an absorbed imperialism, is the last in a series of exploded superiorities, the most advanced in a sequence of dismantled privileges. Perhaps over in Mirage !, they would describe this sentence as “bourgeois” or “reactionary” — they’re such firebrands! And I admire them, too, for their zealous appeal to the literal. I understand their pronounced, almost superstitious fear of irony. They are only interested in the little bit of grit at the centre, not the layers that go into making the pearl. They disregard the pearl entirely, or simply label it as an illusion or a pastime, or a gambit, or a stratagem. Their sentence could easily be parodied as a kind of Lutheran gruel, a dull, joyless dogma, lacking the rich corruption of their catholic forebears. And it should be borne in mind, they are pretty young over in Mirage ! — they haven’t, like those of us drawn to Mirage B, seen their values stewed over centuries of refinement, fatigue, assumption, habit, until those values have mutated into fantastic forms of sloth, ornament, tosh and bombast, with shapes derived less from Euclid or the long, patient study of political economy, but rather from the flamboyant, neon topography of forests of coral, the rustle of deer through a moist autumn glade in the highlands of Mirage A.

 


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