Unheimliche. Deinos. Not at home. The pleasures of these entities cannot be identified.
Nor are the inhabitants of this locality emergent forms, extrinsic to some digital matrix,
though certainly light specks suggest the presence of little eyes that might of course be Windows.
Wind’s eyes.

“And then all windows failed /And then I could not see to see.”

And yet it would be my delight simply to mark things seen in the scenes of this “sad tableau”:

A sphinx with the head of a bearded thug and the body of a dachshund, on whose back a
windowless factory shadow rises instead of wings. A hill. Horizon and well. A muddy pond,
clear enough that reflected figures populate that which sits on its surface and that which
mires below.

Above the horizon rustic life toils, hanging kettles and cow carcasses, and the silhouettes of
untoward birds, or fragments of birds, slinking around things, or fragments of other things
the birds have riven, the indelible shreak of a small hawk that will not integrate with the calls
and peeps and chirpings of morning birds, an portentous avian agony streaking across
bucolic thrustings towards happiness …

In the apartments below, a shredded leviathan, a running man, a ladder under a dead tree
from whose perilous horizontal branch a scaffold dangles.

A bull sacrifice
hands on
a spit,
the proper cuts of the beast not yet submitted to the gods: no smoke goes up, no folding
of fat and thigh pieces, no ululation of women with arms upraised as the pitiless bronze does
its business. Rather, an ant man
with a cubical head
extracts large chunks of the roasting animal
in defiance of ceremony. Ceremony
nevertheless
is everything.

It is a moment in agonic time
populated by large birds 

that only fly once…