From the ending the sentence appears too simple;
the ordination of some volume,

on the television the television itself as a 
palpable flatness, flat like a coarse impression of graphite or 

a conception of usable time; 
there is a fire but it is cold when we touch it, it is

like paper, and the wind as thinly weighted lines
in this representation, the sliding sound

of breath and nature circumscribing
the perceivable; I could have guessed it even then in the neighborhood

as the streetlights went on and I knew I should be getting back
but that there was something there

direct just outside
the perimeter of such backness; the mechanics are true, I can see them; 

we don’t know what to do because we are already 
committed to speech,

the voice having left the body or the body having walked
off; the manufacture of experience;

the quality of light encoding historical meaning 
and the undulation of significance; the demand of it, the forward

murder; sketch this unremarkable meadow as the 
morning gathers around it, the remnant

cool night pressed low as if we might 
wade into it, a memory of great quiet though the air is exact; 

whatever comes around to see in on it, displacing
the shadows and with its weight leaned

against the doorway; taking leave; 
the trees wet with night and the road wet, too, everything seemingly

returned by its wetness; to fold; so 
I was, as I think of it, rubbing the sunrise against my abdomen;

the remainder,
crowned with its own feet and hands and head.