Cries and processions put a public face on things;
this designation is corroborated only by silence

So I’ve been checking around for hints of evidence,
copied formulas, neutral grids blank and ancient,
organizing a memory to document,
as it passes into the listening,
—a surge of impressions
indifferent to fame and death—
that describe an answer but offer none

Only variability is at our disposal—
added from the center—
never too that time for flat out
knowing how is where wastes its looked delivery and so
extends through another likelihood—never too
that time for then after all, hinged et cetera of other possibilities—
the harvest, allegro’s patch; the mouth squared by the tongue
makes the reasons speak another language—
what you came here for in the first place