Drafts 1–38, Toll

Draft 4: In

Draft 4: In Walks thru the daily to write the dead of living in every day, chopping every day a changing, enlarge and isolate, o. Herein to dangle small specks over the cribside surds harmonics dang odd ratios fishing an anarchist page. Oaten paper like bread, ink of the living waves, light billowsin the grain, Scritto. scribe,crotty invents finefast lines and thick inky turnings fingerthinmountains scroll down to the narrow plain, a pretty pass. Creamy cup of tea cool moon night neighbor windowlight. Unrolls accelerating streaming 24 into the kine and pith of basis. How white "all color" the color of luminous death whoselight San Francisco Provence Paestum is the color of myvivisection in the world. The world! the wheaty,milkyworld. Whose years? and what beginnings articulate a blank blanked space, a dotted dotty line? Just here... a draft, a stroke, a kind of fear. The composted grids, earth lines where this hand shakes. Late summer carnation pods dessicate in spiky columns, blue grey green, each line is an inter; there is no action, it is an inter, (although it was genius to isolate one action and make it larger) there is no story or poem in. Every day a little sweeping back, a little digging out in a change enlarging or diminishingcan change. Depends. Inside the paper of the page the iris watermark I suck. 25 A pen, a hand, an inching haibun, riddle and edges: tinted flings of ink wherein inflection singing bends time's minute sounds. In the backward and forward are lower and higher drawn out, drawn on, drawn in a fine tip pen a brushflickof shimmer amid which nuzzleworms and shaking dew. Open eye buttabee. Why the air so blue my honeyo? Why incredulous by any change? bud bud bud but bud bud have turned (should some poem hesitate?) lactate cherry words milky spring IN to hunger of incipience, perpetual. So one is finally of it and the "parts" and configuration are no longer accessible. Stars imperturbability or matter'sinsideAre dark. The mark is dark, the page dark is the first imagination of this drawing, this drafting, these draughts. Skims of language scatter plattersof plenty. Patterns that hunger. A barque of silage through the sky is as layers of translucence, transparencies on which words could be feeding the cow inside the ruminant middle. 26 read through the other, not so much over but the simultaneous conflictual overloaded presences for whicheven "palimpsest" is too structured a docket. Three dimensional page, a page place or plage, a play space, a play splice the flimsy drops of scrim through which they filter, shapes and lights I make thegesture comes through me A perfectlycalm practice it isthis yet there is the tension of making a strange train. The run thru the bi-lingual. Now a very long tunnel totally unexpected. Very dark, and very long Entering under the whole structure of transcendence Long drawnblack gold bold in relation to nature, fodder strokes And now there is no "in" in anything? any deeper or more intimate forage, language any knowledgeof the in is some effect I can no longer resist. Havenoidea what stop I am. grassy drawing on white is for meto show, to show meit, in. "The green horizon, early winter dusk" is certainly pretty. I am not getting the force of it, the rebuff, this constant imperviousness laced with my pleasure. Implacable the world. The sorde serif I call myself. Because I am inside, am a mite in the letter a traveller thru are,thesenses of dark holes tunneling grainy paper. Gathering all because of being in it, yet I am getting the force of it, in. August-December 1987; November 1988; May 1991 27 ...