On Method -- Mary Margaret Sloan
Night-life is quiet. Cross-referencing to the future perfect,
vast new forms of certainty are predicted. Could it be supposed that there was no world, nor any place where the very same thoughts of the sleeping are seen as blanks,
a soundtrack of missed notes. Or losing coordinates the means
or the mode, that is, wherein disputes resolve into a touchy subject;
a light goes on in a science of reflections
which corrupt speech; another red, cloud, may call
attention to the wing from here, its metal skin and bolts.
A block of sky stretches away neither black nor a blank
of unlike appearances. All in favor intended to
say, why, what's been crossed with sound building codes behind that slashing roar?
Subjects dear to the heart rule
out foreclosure, but in the case of fire
rush to the imperative. Crackles in the branches bloom, bolt starward;
a meandering tour of the remaining trees must be a second-hand event
in an architecture of acoustics; the walls are rushing enclosures twisting baffles.
Eye witness accounts, though intelligible, will have been muddied
by anecdotal engineering. Across an expanded field of vision
endoscopic procedures demand that hand and eye find each other all over again
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