Pure Vertical
. . . had fallen through the
cloud of your
own
postulates; felt, in the absence of all
im-
maculata, the
underlying ground
give way. wasn’t the wrist, once,
the air’s
implement; what muscled the
irises in
limp overlapping scaffolds of petal? work,
then, the
hollows, you’d
murmur. for there, where there’s
nothing to
hear, would round to the
ruins, say, of
a
stray substantive. plumb, as you
did, its
slightest tremor for the least, lingering
trace of some
ob-
solescent adage, spent
an-
nunciate. feed, so doing, on
the rinds — the scattered refuse— of
quaver.