it is only now that I can see so far. Passing a jar full of the ocean to the mollusk, he pries it open and shows me the breathing scent of the outer world. Some time passes. Often I lose my rings to downward spiralling church steps: In the search the hook is yanked, cords are caught up in a spin, and the long days after are kicked up guiltless. And it is the trajectory of this that keeps me, loosely, as a shade fixing its stare at a cave painting, thinking that still there is so much that came before I must see. Some time passes; grief is wrung, footfalls echo down steps. Dust, it informs. Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, round the corner. The crumbs bounce as I fall into the bed. Cockroaches, grasshoppers, fleas gaze in amazement at I. Much time to waste. Cockroaches, grasshoppers; much time. And I saw you, mollusk, embossed in silk, and it became of me to enter all that is fogged now.