I'm talking about process which animates and supersedes form and content. Which has context
         and can be predictive. Before you I speak and so
         reaffirm the distance between us which has also just been collapsed. In a sense
I'm creating myself through every aperture. The bees find and honeycomb. The carpenter ants find
and excavate. Constantly. I have never known anyone named Constance. At least intimately.
Personally. So close, I mean, I could reach across and touch hands. Though I imagine
         she would wear cat-eye glasses, a polka dot head scarf when riding the bus and leans
her head against the coated glass as someone wearing brown loafers and a blazer gestures in
         conversation with someone carrying a Pomeranian beneath the angle of an arm. Maybe
         I'm thinking of the decorative pearl beaded band that hangs behind her neck or holding
my grandmother's rosary normally hanging on the maple dresser's statue of Mary. In my mind
the ever present blueness
         of the plaster robe. Maybe I'm just thinking about thinking or maybe that's part
         of the sub-programming. Maybe the dog's name
is Constance or Constantine and the whole thing is an advertisement
         for commercial empire or waste or, more specifically, Sprite, which an old friend for fun
used to pronounce Spri-tite.
And this is part of the problem with completion or integration of experience. Identity formulation.
An integrated marketing campaign where everyone is defined as a wealthy landowner and sixteen.
         The buildings rise. Clamor is a word that comes to mind. One amongst many. The sea
and the oyster shells will never be the same. For us. Is biblical. Should we settle
into silence. I'm sorry. I am just now. Figuring out. I am ritualizing remembrance. I forgot
         this morning to brush my teeth. When I was four,
I lost my favorite blanket at temple. I am as surprised as you
to find that I still have a body. That I need more syllables. Deafening. So often we hear the wail
of sirens closing in. The rumor of funeral singers, which diminishes us. The myth of funeral singers,
which enlarges us. Momentarily. Sight deceives us too and all this is simply
         to say love that affords us. Is affordable. Is not love. And yes I still have a body.
In principle. I remember myself into its crevices and inaccuracies.