Published in Vallum 14.2, Fall 2017


Up to here, every time is a variant. We pass ourselves, for the ending dirt operates on denial. Of not knowing, unaware and bereaved tumuli agree on a defined point.

From here all iterations are the same iteration, passing for finite mud and operating on exclusion. Knowingly or unknowingly, small mounds meet at this sad point.


Shapes are surviving but encounter not once the tranquility of agitation. At selfsame horizons, cushions wake and hollow out. Our needful burrow of confinement is no stumbling for this mammal. A clear affirmation of fog.

Conditions are present but never met, quiet and disquiet equidistant. Pillows awaken and shovels dig small but necessary tunnels: fear of confinement is no obstacle. For mammals and what is, a message is mixed or unmixed.


Peppery sauce constrains slurring itself. This is language. Indistinct twitching or clean hands. Hoped-for efforts glower, partially full. Obviating, a draw traces elsewhere.

Rust prevents rust, and mumbling is language too. Faint spasms and hand-washing make for an honest effort, in part or in whole. Evidential markers mark away.


The subject is what is, a bad idea. Weight is gloomy and like vocabulary. A box of broad ones and the twigs take form. He’ll lose to take it back. Featured parts disband and find unpublished wholes among. Marching beside and toward another horizon.

Subject to what is, a bad idea and weight are morose and equal: a dictionary, can of beans or large bundle of twigs. We take form, lose it, and take it up again. Constituent parts scatter to find new wholes. We walk among them, or by them, and walk away.


More the sweater ages, the falls are a recent version. In this way, a heavy light. We remember it sadly with a given snare. The substance is what misses us to become dirty. Dilation that doesn’t, really. Our weight is of others.

The older the pulling, the newer the fall. With a heavy or light thud, we remember this: a sad and substantial trap, one of many. Missing elements contaminate a growth that doesn’t grow. It is surely someone else’s burden.


Using the value of smells is familiar. Mouthing hurts, obscures the refraction of confirmed sauces. There is little assemblage. Tracing isn’t not in the dark without our hesitation. A place where some eyes are porous.

Use-value wafts and familiar mispronunciation happily obfuscates. Our prism is smeared with old mayonnaise, socks are unpairable and outlines untraced. In the dark, reluctance is out of place: our eyes remain open.

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