The slow parliament of beginning. When at night crickets abound in the sawgrass. The moon of discourse, sifting logic. The dream settles, like rancid flour.
Or else. Or else what he wrote. He wrote "intentions" where he meant "attention," once anyway. He was learning it was slow going.
An airplane just visible after dusk through the backyard pines. Mistaken for a late season firefly which naturally led to thoughts of a world without them. Landscape an open hand, a floor on which dancers made absence. A flight, metaphor, concomitant implications.
To resist was to embrace or that was the proffered excuse. No one sentence could carry the piece yet that was how he approached them. I is not another - I is he. The chorus then rising from a low hum to acquiescence.
There were certain clues and a way the text unraveled when held to the light. Wait - don't say "light." Or else say what you will but carefully, carefully. He wrote not knowing what else the day would show.