Spelling was beyond me, “unlettered small-knowing

soul,” ungoverned, on
Sesame Street—Forgetful Jones. Hymns have their rhythm,

Dickinson stole

from church, problematic anthems, black and white speckles on

the “theme”

notebooks, blue lines, red margin. I ought to have a scheme,

something other than

a compulsion to fill in the blanks. This is your skin, prepared for a

thousand words,

this is your tongue prepared for four scrolls. “Certain bounds hold

against chaos.”

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