A noun sentence, no verb to it or in it: to the sea the scent of the bed after making love ... a salty perfume or a sour one. A noun sentence: my wounded joy like the sunset at your strange windows. My flower green like the phoenix. My heart exceeding my need, hesitant between two doors: entry a joke, and exit a labyrinth. Where is my shadow—my guide amid the crowdedness on the road to judgment day? And I as an ancient stone of two dark colors in the city wall, chestnut and black, a protruding insensitivity toward my visitors and the interpretation of shadows. Wishing for the present tense a foothold for walking behind me or ahead of me, barefoot. Where is my second road to the staircase of expanse? Where is futility? Where is the road to the road? And where are we, the marching on the footpath of the present tense, where are we? Our talk a predicate and a subject before the sea, and the elusive foam of speech the dots on the letters, wishing for the present tense a foothold on the pavement ...
The noun one keeps batting away refuses declension. He says, I don’t want to be twenty-four again. Twenty-four was a handful: the flawless meatflesh, best self, miraculous leap/thump on the hardwood, the twist and splash. The exuberance in the present tense, the timebound blood pump two throbbing lungs butt in their bone cage surges to bursting. He does not perdure in this internal defection: so rare, and so heroic.