The generations of the bird are all
By water washed away. They follow after.
They follow, follow, follow, in water washed away.

Wallace Stevens, Somnambulisma

There is a directness of tilt, a subtle knock, and behind the door a face exposed to a face that is not ours. We are gesture and therefore hopeful . This face, this facelessness, is not the source of anxiety but it is a world and therefore. But the composer sees the way string itself unravels and it might be a bug and there's certainly some crawling and, as a result, hesitation. Our first act is to keep the eyes a moment shut. Her eyes are not shut but there is a blinking which is just to say time is of some importance and what awkwardness, to blink out loud like that. Speak to the first person we see upon opening our eyes.

Lucas Farrell

A wooden fence on the bank of a drying creek flow. A quilt unfurled, an imprint of each shared dream. A cross plank christens slump, fallen at an angle that angle is 17. Descending the hill, in the distance, the girl scooches us over. This is the line. Whether imaginary or not it won