i shouldn’t start here. i should continue the method of this moment until it inspires me. i should retract my claws from the statement, let paper read on the bleeding wind, let it be taken away to a place i may not return from. i called out to this and it has forced my way. led me to the straight of the pigeon where that familiar bird call calms my nerves. there is not force in the seeping waters, which cull rhythmically my understanding, drop by drop, until it pools somewhere further than my hands or toes, beneath the amphibious purse of life surrounded by water. i can wish towards the moment which has already passed, but it will no longer be there for me to gaze at. it will be as if it has vanished. and so i am wishing to nothing. my gaze is not so much at the empty but at a turbulent rainstorm, toward the crackling spear of beginning. which i am not able to be. i shouldn’t have begun because i was already thinking on it. this is the pouring of a method, its disruption. method: the liquid which changes shape, not state. i heard the garbling conversation of the crows, the language of the network of pigeons, the arc of the dance of the word of the warbler, the admittance of the raven, the lull of the mockingbird, the apology of the sparrow, the sardonic growl of the blue jay. in the covert moment, instantly nothing was beyond reach. if i start here i’ll always move to somewhere different. and the sound is the same. a bundle of knots of rivers tug at one another, reaching in the many directions of space. i limb between the wings that pour. but i am not walking. i haven’t, still, let the moment unfold, because in between my cowering knuckles i have managed to take my grip around its plush coat. my arm has the feelers looking into it. moment: the beetle that slivers and scuttles. i should have started here, where the sign falls onto its face, admitting recognition, where i can handle something shiny and leave it in my nest.