there I am taking a position on something, pushing against it. I dissolve. arm through the wall, keep on going. hey mr pharmacist. hello. I came through the door to see you. I'm the only one in here. there's some part of your shape in the bevelled edge of the mirror, moving. there's a voice saying quite clearly - well, break a leg. which leg? or there's the voice in diagnosis: is it the same here as with other people? which other people? all these parts have three or more outlines. I can't get a fix.

but here's something: sharing the couch with a grieving labrador. he spasms continuously in his sleep. then in the morning he pushes my hand awake, needs contact, licks it awake, needs moving, conscious contact and comfort. all day when I walk from room to room or out into the garden he's there, following, anticipating, nudging or leaning against my legs. when I sit he's there, nudging himself under my hand, chewing at something fretfully. so, my hand is there. the dog is there and my hand is there. the owner is frustrated and worried, the kids fall over and hit their heads, the next meal is planned and executed, the baby moves down in the pelvis. here is my hand, the only part here, the position. it's singular. it rests.