by Ben Doyle

    When I bend back to gaze at the satellite convulsions， I

    am an aqueduct for twilit rain. Quite literally¹ I stand

    in the littoral² zone： a lens——no an aqueous humor， my

    feet on the land below the high-water mark， my hand

    a glazed³ waver： hello light-purple lights， hello red spots，

    you've beaten the stars out tonight but you're struggling with the

    atmosphere， ain't ye？ Over centuries the river became not

    a river： Lethe's end crept together——self-scavenging sea

    snake——& the middle filled with water——morphology dubbed⁴ it

    a lake & now the moon swims in it & the moon orbits it &

    the moon tidally tugs⁵ on it. The moon is a satellite in a fit

    of paroxysm. One minute past， I emptied an aluminum⁶ can

    of dull opiate to the drains to wash down my antipsychotics

    then Lethe-wards slunk I. There must be this wire shaking

    loose in my mind， an unattended firehouse， a spasmodic

    filament⁷ attempting to cool the baby planet but lacerating

    precious gray matter. Thought leaves no vacancy⁸ for memory——

    I forget & forget the rules， the thirst an auger⁹， rain only whetting¹⁰

    it， I bend & lap some lake up， tongue it， suck the silty¹¹ mammary

    right where a light from the firmament¹² meets it. I keep forgetting

    the rules， a Ptolemaniac with stars & suns circling me； I keep

    missing my cues， can't arrange the particles moments are made of——

    and it's all good！——because when I bend seriously back & peep

    at the satellite convulsions I am a sluiceway for night rain. If I love

    at least I love aptly， terminally， like a man who loves his dinner until

    he's done with it， then settles to the couch to easy pixilated dreams

    （bounced off， yes， satellites， & beamed into a pale dish）。 And still，

    even unfettered by history or hope， the world does not seem

    shocking——simply something to fly a canvas balloon around， to

    dig a hole in. To climb into. To allow to fill with water， perhaps

    it is raining， perhaps you dig below the watertable； it gushes¹³ through

    the dirt； your bath is drawn¹⁴ & in it are drawn （sputniks & stars） maps

    charts with which to constellate your body. Connect the dots.

    A little ladle with four handles——a tiny light strobes in the cup， in hot

    convulsions of distance， bleats¹⁵ of temporal ignorance， synapse¹⁶ of morse

    but no code， blood but no pulse， the stream but no mouth or source.

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