1
A long expensive journey. The landscape
grown stranger. A space at the end
where there’s no more to interpret.


2
Neither one, three nor seven.
An existence of merely four-beat
rests or in Alberti figuration.


3
Everything’s about the
one, three, four and seven:
returned from their epic.


4
When everyone had seen
the three, an old horse was
turned out into the meadow.


5
A line that ran on that was lost
for breath. The son filé* left nothing
but a round extant exuberance of quiet.


6
A line whose rhythm from this core
of pine had shaped its heart with
...