I, bowerbird of knobs and collector of sunbeams, shall not depart this carousel without touching each bone in your hand. Color and topography are my metaphysics, so how to frame this encounter? The ravine cannot complete a thought. I am nothing but a queue that consumes its tail, and the ridge of my back notches the horizon with its pale blue ends. I know to gather twigs and brambles but how to contain my dreams in a bower? Thatched with the stems of orchids. I’m often frightened of the stairwell and I see connections in every doorjamb. Daydreaming and circulating the tendrils of tomorrow and the next day. Whether to move laterally, jumping from rock to rock or to always lean left and backtrack from the limit. I will never understand you completely in this hamster wheel of pages. There’s often more in a clump of debris than I can remember having lost. A figure, somewhere in the gray ruins of the cellar. I’m still looking sideways for it. Now it’s time to kindle a bonfire by the light of what I don’t know. And brightness everywhere. My eyes flit over images and sentences without turning them over. I will move from bone to bone, tracing shapes, but I will never chew the marrow.