DEFINITIONS VII (the now rare because deleted section)

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Nighttime but isn’t that its own story: the cab pulled up to Ca’Mea, a coincidence; a hierarchy, wisdom of a red dress?

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There is no way to break sense: not even this alligator (?) but its slightest movement the implication of structure, sureness of tail; is that where you left off, still smiling on the doorstep, the old dress with one more place to go?

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I’m going to tell you my last words: soon as I remember them; what does a flat tire tell you? Kiss me now?

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The sentence is a deathbed rant: a motion with all time in it; the stone unwinds its transient clothes, isn’t that your autobiography? This reasonable water, baptism you call sense?

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I asked if the books would pollute my mind: then I asked if it was made up; there is no rational or irrational if only the actual has effect, she said. Is a church not whoever walks in? Are you not the secret book of all I don’t know?

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The situation is Italic, stretching North along the Hudson: that empire you call spaghetti, language in all its themes; I’m a subdued Frascati, forgetting its way in you, forgetting it’s water, forgetting it isn’t. What’s a river but eating in bed?