Into an oblique cylinder, a physical

manifestation of one’s mens rea. More

precisely, a copy of a copy of no copy.

Where silver ingots break into grey rivulets

and fugue down. One may conjecture on

physical ways out, or concentrate on the window:

rhododendron forests; an ochre rooftop; a tip of a tree

branch in a phthalo field. Both a part and


apart. Or to try to speak into a void (sort

of an improvisational hacking away at time).

Or to look in the mirror and see an empty face.

Or to keep moving forward and backward—slowly

and even slower yet, taking interstitial

steps—as if there is no place.

       Charles Kell

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