dreamly now. resting. there in the leaf-light, below the tuileries, among the cinnamon trees.
I see this carrying on beyond the wall, where we're repeated, garden after garden, with ease.

"The American Marten is active in early morning, late afternoon, at night, and on overcast days, traversing a home range of 5 to 15 square miles (13–39 sq km). In daytime and during inclement weather, it uses a tree hollow, fallen log, rock den, or squirrel’s nest as a resting site. Its small size allows it to use a woodpecker hole in a tree, where it constructs a nest of leaves or grass. An inquisitive animal, it can be coaxed from its den by mouse-like squeaks. The marten spends most of its time foraging on the ground for rodents. Its large feet serve as snowshoes in soft snow. Red-backed voles are the diet staple throughout its range, but the marten also takes other small rodents, especially other voles, Red Squirrels (often captured in winter while they are sleeping in their middens), and flying squirrels, as well as rabbits, reptiles, and birds. Its varied diet also includes carrion, insects, earthworms, eggs, berries, conifer seeds, and honey. The marten sometimes buries surplus meat, though generally it is a poor digger. Martens breed the year after birth or in the second year. The male holds the female by the nape and may drag her around before actual copulation occurs. Females may accept more than one male. Both sexes establish scent posts by dragging the scent glands on their abdomens over logs and branches. Usually martens avoid each other; if two meet, they bare their teeth and snarl. Their repertoire of vocalizations also includes huffs, pants, chuckles, growls, screams, whines, and eeps. The marten has few enemies other than humans. It is easy to trap, and its valuable pelt has led to its extirpation in many areas; in other spots, lumbering has destroyed its habitat and reduced populations. The American Marten is now protected and making a comeback in many localities."

the last few just a clearing out of things that were hiding in 'drafts'. more and more in there as a kind of constriction passes over. a snake slowly convulsing as it digests something. something something unseen.

perhaps something that feels large because it is quite small and poisonous. but stop trying now, stop trying to be big and great and able. stop trying to move them around. they fall down and sleep. and all become the grass and the calcium in the earth. butterflies fall into patterns of dust. patterns fall into piles. piles fall into the space of a former sea.

lost my bearings. just wanted instead to not move those characters. strongly this, that they could simply be there.

where was that? father moving closer, holding down the electric fence with a stick. angry and also grinning, excited. a dog, there's a dog going crazy with excitement, barking up at his legs.

and there she is with the rifle in the mouth

"a line has two sides" (Oblique Strategies)

Once we (only half-conscious of this) left her in oak tree out the front, calling out (did you hear something? imagine if the ladder fell! imagine if she got stuck up the tree!) while we danced, stupid as we could, to her records, Onwards Christian Soldiers, blasting through the living room, rattling the Philippine carved nativity scene. Maybe because I was with an adult I thought we couldn't be naughty, couldn't be doing any harm.

But the oak tree was older than that. And the cactus garden, huge, the dilapidated greenhouse full of "fairies" and insects; the row of she-oaks that burned down one summer - fire engine, alarm.

the girl has clumps of minced meat, a bag of seeds, and she moves from cage to cage pushing handfuls of these through the bars. she tips her head up, flips her hair away from her eyes and looks at me. hard light here in the clearing. she's what - 40? around that. I see it. it's not a child's figure. I see the muscles on her arms, & through her nightie, the shape of her thighs. it's a dancer’s figure, something like that. her hands are threaded with muscle.

the sables quieten down one by one as they eat but by the time the last is fed the first is growling and huffing again. the father hauls a hose around from the back of the shed and aims it at the animals one by one. they dance against the jet of water, bite at it, whine and leap. shit peels off the cage floors, off their paws and out onto the earth.

through this I stand quietly. I can’t say if he’s seen me or not. I’m waiting for that moment. water runs across the ground from the cages towards me, dead pine needles carried on its surface. it pools round my feet and I feel my shoes turn cold, then the wetness leaks in. when it comes, I think. when it comes I will know what to do. far above, the birds lift the netting by great force of upward beats. their wings close and they drop. he drags the hose away again and disappears.   

help me get them back in the shed, she says. I pick up a pair of cages. the animals thrash. I take them back into the dark, stinking shed. there’s enough light to see the gun is hung up on the wall, suspended on two nails.

what about that? 


no one's ready. we need a buyer for the pelts.


I briefly consider taking it down and smashing it against the side of her head. 


I thought you were younger.


I did used to be.


But not when I held you. why were you there all night? I thought I could do something for you. 


she yelps, then laughs, pulling her hand back from a cage and sucking her finger. I can't see what happened - there's no visible blood and the sable looks unexcited. Listen, we do need an investor, she says. You staying for a drink?


I stay for a drink. The officers are already at the table, drinking. The father - the husband? - is sitting on the pile of clothes she'd left on the floor, working over an account book in the dim light. Turns out the officers know a buyer, someone with a missing kid who is willing to pay more than the pelts are worth.


We can help him, they say, and Klein taps at the death certificate sitting under his glass. It's an okay deal. 


My phone rings. it's mother. She's been left alone all day, can't believe she's been left alone all day. I tell her it's okay, I'm not far away, just over at the summer house, and everything is fine. She reminds me to pick up the rent. It's doubled this last week, she says. Tell them that. It's high time.  

The moon is up when I walk back through the garden. The moon pours light onto the closed eyelids of the trees, and from their eyelids through their fingers and ringing to the ground. The shots begin before I reach the new year citruses, and they come every four or five steps, keeping me in a kind of march till I reach the road and silence falls, still as a kind of ringing, which stays in my ears all the way home.

"The we is always positive, the plural you is a possible ally, the they has the face of an antagonist, the I is unseemly, and the you is, of course, superfluous." Adriana Cavarero, Relating Narratives: Storytelling and Selfhood - via Judith Butler "Giving an Account of Oneself" (diacritics, v 31:4)

"As we ask to know the Other, or ask that the Other say, finally, who he or she is, it will be important not to expect an answer that will ever satisfy. By not pursuing satisfaction, and by letting the question remain open, even enduring, we let the Other live, since life might be understood as precisely that which exceeds any account we may try to give of it. If letting the Other live is part of a new definition of recognition, then this version of recognition would be one that is based less on knowledge than on an apprehension of its limits. In a sense, the ethical stance consists in asking the question, "Who are you?," and continuing to ask the question without any expectation of a full or final answer." Judith Butler "Giving an Account of Oneself" (diacritics, v 31:4)

we were at that long suspended walking bridge across the nape of the valley. we walked out onto it and into the wind, which cracked the mesh plates beneath our feet and rippled our wet shirts across our backs.  foliage shook below, that wind coming in from the straits, from the sea, pushed up away from the hot land, disturbing what it could of the surface of filaments and moving on, unable to get close or make anything cool but the tips of the leaves and the cracking mesh plates, steel and flexible to the pressures of the whole, and us, our wet backs. A crashing in the branches below; macaques.

at the half-way point the gates at the far end became visible. still closed, locked. we waited, cast around for signs; far below an assistant appeared and began gesturing. there was a delay. some business had not been resolved at the beginning of the bridge; the gates would not be opened at the end. it was signalled to us that we were to wait. the staff could not solve this today; they were going home. maybe other staff would be sent to sort things out.

the sky softened. the trees below us turned from brilliant green to a gentle grey. we leaned against the balustrades, we wandered back and forth - back towards the northern entry, now locked too; back towards the south. the wind picked up and the bridge took on a slight sway. we gazed, and eventually we sat down on the mesh plates in the swaying. we placed our heads upon each others' bony shoulders and we waited.

one of the things that happened was
under the rose. I pressed my finger to my lips
and rosy petals fell, crusted white with thrips.

one of the things that happened was the execution.
and the doctor's head on his desk. glaceed,
heavy like a medicine ball.

during the reallocation we drained the swamp
the eggs were fed to the elders
& the pens opened up to the pastures.

 our old friends escaped and I
found a place to sit with my feet
in sparkling waters, a little foam gathering

around my toes.

today i saw
a moment of public disavowal: well, I relate to him more as a friend than a poet.

I asked her to hurry - we needed to meet the officers out on the road. And I was concerned about the father coming back. By now she was pulling crumpled clothes, medicines out of a cupboard stuffed with things, strewing them on the floor. You go ahead. I'll be there soon. I wondered how old she actually was.

I went and stood on the road's edge, fiddled with my phone. Headache. Dust. Text from the officers saying not to move, they had been delayed.

And then there was a short, high-pitched squeal, and my stomach filled with lead, and I turned as in a big bad dream back to the trees, the greenery grey with dust from the road and all this growth thicker than ever, incomprehensible, animal shapes of its former growth hidden within it and how would I press through there? There was a sharp cracking sound and I thought I must wait for the officers, it wasn't safe, but I remembered how I had told her she could come to stay with us and I felt shame at the thought of leaving her there. My legs, brave soldiers, carried me in.

They were not at the summer house. The rubbish sack of her things was burst open and scattered through the open doorway. I heard his angry voice deep among the trees, so walked to where I knew they were - by the old shed - but when I got there they were silent. The door was completely off its hinges. He was pulling cages from within the shed, one by one, stacking them against its outside wall. The sables were squirming and pacing.

That question again: -were you appealing to him? -are you appealing to them?

A trick question & a good trick, got me both times. The verb, not the adjective. Head clunks through the point of view shift. & the question that's not the real question is the question that's the answer.

Dear Doctor,

I glazed over at about four o'clock, about 20 minutes after becoming convinced that you'd cured me. Plastinated? Thanks very fucking much. When do you get home?

-I don't know why you think there is only one way back.

cradle

saw nothing

woke up without having phoned.
without having fed her.

pine trees cracking overhead
orange needles for someone's bivvy

how you sleep at that angle or the
constant noise from the wind

and a branch falls. haven't fed her.
fused to a seat on the bus that guy

going round like pairs of butterflies
the street below your adrenal gland

caught in a flutter like that.
you don't sleep. I woke up.