. . . that part that
goes nowhere, fits nothing, that
doesn’t, wouldn’t, isn’t instigates none–
the-

less the speculation of all parts that
are. call it, if

one will, a part so
im-
partial, an anomaly so absolute, that
nothing, if not the breath it-
self, might attain

such resolute autonomy. nothing, that is, if
not the

germinal circulation of
letters
a-
lighting, at last, on
something altogether lighter than the

slightest
increments of
substance itself. there, that
is, where the

rose, so
accorded, might bud ebullient in the very
midst of such
an

inherent socket of
exemption.