Backwoods, incessant beats. Backwoods, the very nerve of fidelity. But say something else. Say the graphic doodles our condition into froth in the arguing hills over there. The days perish, wanting simplest ties. And the flexible branch lifts and falls, a kind of wave. Sooner or later we will enter Abraham’s drum and the wet slide of his hair will abolish our simple roomlike conditions. The invisible slope will drain into drops while Abraham beats and beats his forgiving set. Are the ancient songs contested? Are we too long in the cave, on the island, in an insular, petty drift? Questions are stained cups. The heart skips a beat. Abraham wanders off in a mood of melancholy triumph. The others, his mistresses, huddle on the floor. His mistresses are part of the inventoried world: they can be counted, they can be sent away to join others, parts of others, they can be treated like sentences in the inventoried world.
