Seasonal Works with Letters on Fire

In the Evening of the Search

I N T H E E V E N I N G O F T H E S E A R C H Vastness of dusk, after a day— what is a person? Too late to ask this now. The court has ruled a corporation is a person. Persons used to be called souls. On the avenue, a lucky person stands in a convenience store scratching powder from his ticket— silver flecks fall from his thumbs to galaxies below. Deep in the night a trough of chaos forms; your lover’s body stops it every time. Meteors of the season over minnows in the creek with two kinds of crayfish, tiny mouths & claws —nervous, perfect, perfect life—the flesh of a dreamer, facing the wall— Around each word you’re reading there spins the unknowable flame. When you wake, a style of world shakes free from the dream. It doesn’t stop when you go out; it doesn’t stop when you come back as you were meant to— 1 0 5 ...