I read what the water spelled in
the partly flooded field where
a few horses stood at the edge:

a dreaming alphabet articulate.
I hesitated to enter any house
which did not contain a shrine

(manifesto eye of signs): Tara,
Morgana, the Princess of Discs
or even an image of Ulorin Vex.

The lost art of twilight indeed,
nuance I do not recognise now:
my nostalgia for the typewriter

displaced by nostalgia for each
page as the unit of composition.
O blue she-wolf, guard my work.