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164 ATTEMPTS AT DIVINATION Preparations for the unknown, shapes of buildings you’ve only dreamt, plants that will begin nameless. Even Lena’s cards can't account for these forced turns, say nothing of camel, spoonbill, Urfa ibis. Forget these twisted black vines, mustard blooms between. In the old alchemies, the whole earth is a booke . . . in which the pages are turned with our feet, which must be used pilgrimly. If only we could read the marks our walking makes, words scraped onto the slow backs of turtles. How surely it moves beneath us, scriptura continuum, our illegible lives. ’ SIOBHÁN SCARRY 165 NORTH TRIPTYCH After Rothko To forgo the naming of things. To no longer reach after the horizon. Into the black that shines and all that can not be pushed from the final spaces. What presses in until the wavering becomes a singular altar of your own throat. The martin’s inward song. * Waveforms of gray and the purpled stain of communions that would not take. * Imperfect light but light. SIOBHÁN SCARRY ...

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