this doesn’t exist

somewhere, water.  or otherwise discreetly.  voice enters as a refusal of night.  the exact proportion of finger to forearm escapes me.  if I were drawing the dark, in which of its permutations would I appear

no mistake was possible

like the rats, hunger.  a constant companion.  the stuttering of locks and doors.  there is no one else.  stink of urine

this is an illusion

the shape memory takes in the absence of volition.  pushed aside.  I inhabit its corrugations as an exercise in clarity.  nothing intercedes between me and the stars

the right point of attack

the weight of them, so like water.  or vermin.  a voice in extremis echoing against steel.  shuffling of boots as in a well

forget the transcendent certainty

inertia of belief in which I do not fail to doubt.  it is time for drinks, a cocktail.  manhattan by way of preference.  different meanings.  a convenient guise

this doesn’t exist