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Stereo split The Sun Sessions into high and low. Sun made the coast impossible to see, a static flash, the visual field impassable. The road wound on continuously as if that were possible. Until we were needlepointing up. Up! Construction of this world is a job for laymen: linens, ramekins—a cake for each guest, a souvenir mussel shell no one can touch, a whorl working inward. A song to sing in bed. My lights and my heavies, pray, take note: the bees as clean as young French Christians lifting from the thicket as they may and might. They retain the mark of incision, they are ready to receive restitution. Caught in the pincerlike motion of this world—the beauty pageant in the walled city, the doctors without borders taking this opportunity to reorganize—the Sea Similized to Pastures, the Mariners to Shepherds, the Mast a Maypole, the Fish Beasts— |
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