“Some fresh & fruitful showers upon my sunne-burn’d brain.”
The sun’s plumbing uses an x-ray machine to reveal the breaks and burns of my brain. I don’t know if the biology of making words can be measured, studied, or repaired. Inwardness and outwardness do not fish the same stream. You float on the surface like painted leaves with parenthetical affection softening the blow. We are interested in truth, not cheeks or eyes. But a gallery of portraits has no grammar. Pregnant with fragments, drinking clouds of history, chewing on realism and process, performing violence on bodies of water. I walk on a rusty bridge in the dark from the hungry part of the heart to something else.