And there’s some yellow gone past its bearings, all underside and protected curl. There’s a yellow sanctified. An escharotic. Hints and tangles. Yes, brown’s a combustion, moving and reckless. Brown’s a lobster of moss and bark. (Remember these tender antennae in air, probing for signals and knowing don’t touch rock, anemone, star, but sift for a radiant depth, bent and scattered.) And, too, with a stick in its mouth of sticks, joy in its face as it comes from the tangle, brown’s a dog, straight-on, (mid-run, it must be) eyes shadowed and nose, that brightness, a wetness. Its tail a live coil diving back in. A dog decohering. Fascicle. Fascia. Driving toward fascis: a bundle. Then it all pares away. Brown junks and darkens upon itself. Starts over again the next day. I’ve always disliked, in the name of precision, and for their resolve, landmarks. Brown meanders. There’s that lobster again, right here, the size of, oh ten or twelve dog heads—one of which is all I can make of this form emerging from its tender surround, the scrawl of it, the matter crisscrossing, those buckled, stray, wiry shoots shooting out.
