In the market to be a sense is
pealing out the surface areas. A fruit seller
is terse, sagittal. How summer is
a fit expression, as germane as botanic.
I possess an indefinite impatience. What
do I observe? Here a faith in images still,
and moving, I observe nothing
quite proves prosody but people feel rhythm
in their bodies. The body is pronounced
bawdy. And here a faith in materials
I too cagily profess. And then ‘the sense
faints.’ I fold this.

            Steadily I discover exteriors.
I fold them.

            Continual and cheapened light
of the electric kind suffuses most areas
in which I remain. In some sense I am
reporting on a country. What do I

            Observation, its obstacles. Forms of envy.

growing out of the landscape constrainedly.

            A seasonal negation
inducing absence.

            A relation blooms in this landscape
full of abuses.

            The people aren’t errant,
they are erratic.

            Terror takes them. Territories
sing refrains.

            The air is filled with amazing
becomings, Marquezian

            I fold this.