At last some relief in an image. An onion, hermetically sealed in tupperware, floats through a sound to the shore of an island. Maybe ‘hermetically’ isn’t right for tupperware, but for now there’s the privacy of the word, its neutralizing effect. There’s Bernstein praising the privacy of Ashbery. There are tall silver hedges, that’s a different domain. Privacy’s where it all happens and I’m not sure I can afford it. I want a shelter but some are welded so to fool the inspectors. So then I’m the inspectors. I’m police. Alarm is ringing through the sound. Salt fluid’s leaking in, amniotic to the onion. No, neutralizing to the onion. It’s incredibly tasteless, this whole conceit. So then I’m my horror. I spring a leak. I’m completely open to current events. So then it’s time for the octonauts. Vegemals, prepare some fish biscuits for the large predators. Tweak, how quickly can you construct a new octopod?

An onion, sealed in tupperware, floats in a sound - sound meaning a gunmetal night with islands like clouds on a felt board and elements shiftable like that. The water an edgeless depthless gunmetal night. There’s a soft slapping. There’s a soft reaching sound beyond the water, at the shore. It arrives at the same time as nearly unbearable silence.