A wrinkled chunk of my brain decomposes in the basement. What music emits from yellow papers? The futility of seeds like kernels of narrative or distributed thoughts I don’t know why the current sorts sentences or how water breaks the bone. Like collision & light how the membrane of a dream imitates lichen There are fossils and leaves. Who can collect them? I have a pebble on my bedside table, but no knowledge of its origin. How resembling of language something from fragments without a house Something of entropy in the root of the tongue failing its sonnet Even vases and figurines, even pillowcases and socks. They are part of a story that nobody can tell. So your feelings scatter in the meadow. Listen to the unpublished wind in the brittle branches.