I’m not well. It’s true I don’t know my place at the water table,
don’t know which lens to taste. I ran three miles and my spine
unraveled, but it’s all good, I’ll get it together before dark.
You wonder what I’m doing and I tell you. A sculpture about rhy-
rhythm, I say, cranking T12 to L1. The problem is I let the
material speak for itself.

I’m circling and uncircling waters. This is what I do.
The sink goes in spurts. Until the next storm drain I’ll take
my minerals through the ears. Plate of nickel, cube of zirconium—
isn’t weaving partaking? I’m just a glazed web, I say,
it’s hard to see the spaces when we thread so well.

It’s all good. I’m not well. You wonder what I’m doing and I
tell you. Our satellite dish is full. I’m gazing through the lens,
I’m licking it dry. Flickers of white noise enliven the spine,
so swallow ‘til you’re live enough to unwind an orbit. Hold
your iron. Fire. You’ve got to run down sometime.