What a drag it is to be among people who don’t read or who fear art because they think it makes fun of them. The tree is nothing but the tree. Or your mother. Or the nation. Bank of America, Merck, Pfizer. Nothing changes from generation to generation except the thing seen. Rusty backhaw, golden rain tree, 3M, Alcoa, AT&T. Clouds are not spheres—mountains are not cones, coastlines are not circles, and bark is not smooth, nor does lightning travel in a straight line.

We record the noise, static, error, outliers.

On February 10 the Dow closes up at 12273, poised to snap a winning streak, may fall tomorrow on Cisco. Characters ticker between us. Both the rivers and their banks are moving. A bird rests at the end of every winter branch plotting its own flight path.

“The poetics of such a situation/are yet to be found out.”

Holy, holy, holy.