The yacht (he said) had twelve drunken poets on board, and when they sighted land they all dove into the sea to swim the rest of the way, and had to be pulled out again.
are drawn across or down, or up to lift gaze and smile: as yours are lifted
now in the wet and darkened street.
your writing’s at an impasse, too! the woman flung at him, at the end
of a series of accusations. They sat together in an area bruised to the
extent where friendship loses its purchase.
Formless yet complete. One register’s juxtaposed with another; there are erasures and connecting lines; marginalia.
… form dissolved into feeling.
We were remembering events from the past, which had happened in a distant country where we’d both lived. In my late adolescence (I said) I would sometimes catch sight of a young filmmaker who resided in the same house as one of my friends. He was praised for a film that combined animation with live footage, occult symbols with shots of a young woman naked on his bed. One evening I entered the hallway of the house as he was shouting at this same woman, telling her to get out, that he’d finished with her; he was on the landing, and she stood on the stairs below. Her look of pain spreading through disbelief as ink through water caught me; it still catches me — while his film remains as a mere schema.
—The heart’s affection is enmeshed in vicissitude.