Object learned— I wanted that: the pliant edges of the ocular and into which
a kind of how, when it is so late,

the faint schematic and the smell
of the explained, as in we are not usually in such a place

but for the reading, to erect a jungle with its green tubes and dead light,
or else the planar remnants

of rationality—to say, a city—quieted, 
as though a captive in a delicate helicoid of water,

as though in the echo of use and the human figures there brushed
clean; I stood up away from the text; 

I think it has to do
with this lateness; listen, I ask, again and again, 

but then it is not a sound that follows but an image or an electrostatic
pressure—

there are none, and
doomed to, they say, a mind always already finite, in its rehearsals and

repertoires, the dawn littered with refrains; a switch can only be
switched; 

but then I want to say the most famous words,
the words we say when we mean both a beginning and an end, when we

mean the necessity in which we are
instated, the contingency of a world the simplicity of our viewership,

the words that we have always already
been saying, that have never stopped meaning nor started to mean,

the ones that are not ever late, though it is late, and we need them.