In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

77 Hour I rise from the table blinking, still in the poem where every shape’s a music murmuring on like water under rock. You have entered the room, but you are ages away from me, fog-bellowed, mouthing. I think I must have been born to behold you like this, from death’s mist. There are rings of humid light around you—yellow-bearing-blue— that have to do with where the body ends. They hum and humming how they hold you! ...

Share