THIS HAD no pronunciation any of us could recognize. We set it up and gazed as if it were a lump of fire. In short, it was the moment we lived, as if it were our whole life. This one this one the one and this one.
I WAS an unregulated flute for awhile. Then I took up unbuilding History with my barely formed sequences. The breath that came, of course. And misunderstood each phrase of the score.
WHEN THAT had used us long and long, we bent to crabs. We glowed a selfish red. And something asked us to listen. Not a new part of everything.