Morning arrives new-born on time through the cables in the plaster wall, through the itch of
frayed wiring, through the tacit pull of chemical skin. I wake to red spots, I wake to voices, to
memory remixed as architecture. Noise spills through the window. Noise is the bones beating
themselves in the body. Morning is an open field onto which one conceives the day.
One goes to sleep on fire & wakes up ash. One goes to sleep a willing victim & wakes up a
teacher. The moon is new-born as corrosion, agitation new-born as a field. What reassures me is
how the period holds the sentence & the sentence is spoken by someone else, how I revise my
memory into the pluperfect. This is the miracle: the cannibal field new-born as a body, floating
horizontally above the canal, making a bed of corrosion in the moonlight of memory.