We are palimpsests. There is no essence, only sums – in the end.
And only then.
Meanwhile, we are continually re-formed, re-contextualised. Erasures.
Recorded, fragmented, rerecorded, as accurately as before –
We are as many stories as viewpoints, as points of contact. We will be
clouds seen through a cardboard tube on a windy afternoon
with the world on its back in a field.
We are the itch of a blade of grass on its lower back.
We were, in that present, an annoyance. Now, this gust of cold, North Sea.
We are the twelve year-old boy, living in the cave and painting
the pleasure of an erection.
We have been his mother’s rolling eyes.