OF MOVEMENT TOWARDS A NATURAL PLACE
See him recall the day by moral trace, a squint
to cross-fire shewing fear of hurt at top left; the
bruise is glossed by “nothing much” but drains
to deep excitement. His recall is false but the charge
is still there in neural space, pearly blue with a
touch of crimson. “By this I mean a distribution
of neurons…some topologically preserved transform”,
upon his lips curious white flakes, like thin snow.
He sees his left wrist rise to tell him the time,
to set the damage control at the same white rate.
What mean square error. Remorse is a pathology of
syntax, the expanded time-display depletes the
input of “blame” which patters like scar tissue.
First intentions are cleanest: no paint on the nail
cancels the flux link. Then the sun comes out
(top right) and local numbness starts to spread, still
he is “excited” because in part shadow. Not will
but chance the plants claim but tremble, “a
detecting mechanism must integrate across that
population”; it makes sense right at the contre-coup.
So the trace was moral on both sides, as formerly
the moment of godly suffusion: anima tota in singulis
membris sui corporis. The warmth of cognition not
yet neuroleptic but starry and granular. The more
you recall what you call the need for it, she tells
him by a shout down the staircase. You call it
your lost benevolence (little room for charity),
and he rises like a plaque to the sun. Up there the
blood levels of the counter-self come into beat
by immune reflection, by night lines above the cut:
Only at the rim does the day tremble and shine.
