The Long Count

Sometime during the 13th b'ak'tun
Jack Dempsey floored Gene Tunney.
The long count...

There is nothing left to bet on
but what time it is.

I drive my car through a time zone.
My phone lets me know.

Someone is reading endless magazines.
My phone lets me know.

I have the death app now.
I miss my quiet immortality.
The long count...

She said de Chardin's noosphere
is not just full of knowledge.
It must have experience too.
Wouldn't it?

Are we at war?
My phone lights up.
Traffic fatalities today...
Worldwide or local?
Choose.

Transport me to that place
where everything is opening,
where I am standing
on the horizon
and I know it.

The Conditions

The conditions showed up with briefcases.
They looked like average guys,
laughing and bumping each other
while they acted like they were talking.
Briefcases clicked and out came
parts of a bigger thing.
The parts formed a box
that I found myself inside.
"Inside?"  I questioned.
"No,  just resting,"  the conditions responded.
Time passed and I received layers of help.
An image arose of a pineapple upside down cake
that made me so hungry

I missed the cake metaphor.
"No matter,"  I said
as the cake slide out of perspective.
Entertainment arrived,
brightly colored hand knitted forms
that appeared to be partially finished,
or unraveling.
"No matter,"  I said
as I wrapped one around my head.
Finally word came of what was
happening outside the box.
At first I was so happy
for the word
that I didn't notice
it was one word
repeated over and over.
I asked for a sentence
but accepted silence.
"No matter,"  I said
as I saved the word.
The light changed in the box.
I noticed a bowl of
blue opinions by my feet.
I chewed on one while
pondering my word.
A pit was all that was left.
"No matter,"  I said
as I sucked on the pit.
Eventually it softened
and split in two.
I stopped sucking and
noticed where I was.
I remembered the sharpie
in my shirt pocket.
There was just enough light
to draw a conclusion in the box side.
I exited.
The conditions were nowhere to be found.

Louise Gluck

Celestial Music

I have a friend who still believes in heaven.
Not a stupid person, yet with all she knows, she literally talks to God.
She thinks someone listens in heaven.
On earth she's unusually competent.
Brave too, able to face unpleasantness.

We found a caterpillar dying in the dirt, greedy ants crawling over it.
I'm always moved by disaster, always eager to oppose vitality
But timid also, quick to shut my eyes.
Whereas my friend was able to watch, to let events play out
According to nature. For my sake she intervened
Brushing a few ants off the torn thing, and set it down
Across the road.

My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains
My aversion to reality. She says I'm like the child who
Buries her head in the pillow
So as not to see, the child who tells herself
That light causes sadness-
My friend is like the mother. Patient, urging me
To wake up an adult like herself, a courageous person-

In my dreams, my friend reproaches me. We're walking
On the same road, except it's winter now;
She's telling me that when you love the world you hear celestial music:
Look up, she says. When I look up, nothing.
Only clouds, snow, a white business in the trees
Like brides leaping to a great height-
Then I'm afraid for her; I see her
Caught in a net deliberately cast over the earth-

In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set;
From time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall.
It's this moment we're trying to explain, the fact
That we're at ease with death, with solitude.
My friend draws a circle in the dirt; inside, the caterpillar doesn't move.
She's always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image
Capable of life apart from her.
We're very quiet. It's peaceful sitting here, not speaking, The composition
Fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air
Going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering-
It's this stillness we both love.
The love of form is a love of endings.
~Louise Gluck

Make Water Change World

for cold fusion

There is no elegant answer.
Better living through chemistry
arrived by coach, spitting blood,
cocking a suspecting eye at
the trying times of magic.

At the Hatterie I tried on headware,
looking at my reflection,  waiting a moment.
Different lids for different jars.
Waiting, my mind wandered into the
age of discovery where a cold meal
of contingent sandwich and ale
led to a nap, the nap to
rummaging in a dream, the
dream carrying the occult out
the back door in a small red
leather satchel where a carriage
awaited departure. It was late.
It was a discovery that would
not tolerate the darkness.
I realized I would have to speak
in numbers, reason, elegant formulas, tongues.
All to prove what is.
"What if I can't prove what this is that exists?" I heard myself shout.
The driver leaned down from his perch. "It's all imagination, isn't it!"

Back at the Hatterie I noticed the hat on my head.
A dark brown, floppy fedora.
Someone like me was tapping the source.
Someone was dreaming at the same glass
of water I was holding. Bare-headed,
another philosophical eye.
Nothing in hand.
Likewise the water showed nothing.
Demure, clear.

Leaving Earth

I told you not to go out there
unless you wanted to stay.
Deep in the house, deep in yourself
part of you sits still and part of
you is moving, this way and that.

The train I hear late sounds like
it is moving away to the south,
a long cruising whale sliding
through the night, sounding.

You stand still, that mysterious
extension still swaying.
The sliding glass door hisses and you 
could be on your way to St Louis.
It is a long walk,
probably three hours by train.

But you would be leaving earth
wouldn't you?
Leaving the tea kettle,
the fresh bread, the dog's telemetry,
the children calling you in the evening.
The umpire of whiffle ball, the
referee of 21 in the driveway,
the driveby window's shadow
in the diamond night.

Tonight I hand carried you
across the threshold and you
lived a while here in the kitchen
crunching a bowl of food,
letting me stand there
in your black stream.
Right there at the meeting of noses,
mine scentless, yours so capable,
we touched,  you released me,
and I fell back to earth.
I called out your two names.
The first means where?
the second, come.
Your world can not be my earth,
only a summary of my affection.

Now you are on the corner
of your world   among the
street light shadows of rabbits.
Your darkness fuses with shrubs.
Your breath,  stealth.

The Climate

Sasquatch sits in a tree watching two parties throw fruit pies at each other. Voices rise, a chase ensues. Sasquatch emerges and eats the pies.

Surfacing after Election Day

They stood in the conning tower, bobbing.
Luminescent squid draped the aft, glowing.
"Depth report," he asked, a curious tone.
"Asleep sir," replied the earnest clipboard.
'How long?"
"Since running silent sir."
"Data report."
"One long dream sir."
"Content?"
"An ironing board, eight murmurs, a foxtrot lesson."
They began to roll in the new wind.
"Signifiers?"
"Murmur filters inconclusive. Dance sequence
apparently a learning experience."
"Ironing board?"
"You sir, the board is you."
A gull landed on his shoulder, cocking a bleached head.

Being on Something

Who invented the sock? What is plural?
When I drive a car I see other things.
But I keep driving.
There I sit in the car thinking and looking
and it moves along.
I notice other cars with other people in them.
They too make their cars move.
I have no idea what those people in those cars
may be thinking as their cars move.
They could be thinking about a bowling ball's
hole placement, licorice, non-existent places,
hand held maps, a baby, a headache, turning,
Vikings meeting Indians for the first time.
None of these thoughts are real. Most if not
all have nothing to do with moving the car.
How does the space between cars stay safe?
Everywhere people are doing something else
while staying alive in their cars until I see
a bird, stunned, motionless, hunched on the
twin boundary lines. Ahead is a bright color
that makes me stop and look down to the
side, where the quiet bird sits.  His dark
shining eye looks into my eye as my eye
looks into his. I begin to cry, speculating
that I know something, crying because I
definitely know something.  So still it was
because the car is moving now.
I hear myself say the word generous
in the direction of the bird. And then
the thought is coming toward me that
I have no idea what the word fundamental means.
But still the car moves ahead and turns the corner.

His Speech in Broad Daylight

The crest of a hill, a coat of arms,  a wave.

All electricity must cease

All batteries are void.

The box raised me seven inches

above all others present.

My words were arranged

like written instruction.

Many there were reminded of the

exploded diagrams in model kits.

I asked everyone to hold their own faces.

Some were confused by this.

Others slapped themselves.

I felt the glass pitcher inside me tip.

I steadied the stream until

the lightness ebbed.

My voice was just below

the threshold of a scream.

I was baying in broad daylight.

The moon turned away.

And then like so much burnt cork

I was darkened , hidden away from myself,

from audience.

The plan for me was reduction, sidebar.

The species stood up and yawned.

In the distance I could hear

generators start up again.

Clouds disengaged,

batteries smiled at the sun.

My fall was less than a foot.

Exact Science

Our desire for omniscience plays a role in dampening down our capacity to experience. What would a poll-less world look like?  If we believe the certainty of numbers and continue to refine the certainty why would it be necessary to experience the future event the poll is based on?  In our endless need to know we don't take the time for time.  The poll is a cheat against the intensity of emotion that would be coming.

Pollcat

I observed a Pollcat lounging on a tree branch yesterday. His bright coat looked iridescent in the afternoon sun.  Slowly he turned reddish brown as a cloud passed overhead.  He stood, stretched, and then peed on his rear leg.  I said, "Pollcat, why have you peed on your leg?" At the sound of my voice he turned a decidedly bluish gray.
"I'm marking my territory,"  he said,  as he leaped down and scurried away.

Multiple Regression

In my dream my analyst was listening to me describe a dream I said I'd had a week earlier. In my dream's dream  I broke a raw egg on the head of my dog to make him stop barking. Suddenly my analyst interrupted my story because he wanted to tell me something he'd been keeping from me.

"How is this possible?" I asked. "You're not listening, you're talking."

"Fascinating," said my analyst. "I wanted to tell you I know some things about myself."

"Is this still analysis?"  I wondered out loud.

"Where?" said my analyst.

"By the candle there," I said.

"I see."

I was afraid to go on, not knowing what to dream next. But the dream went on ahead anyway, having gathered the past in a weightless satchel. We like to say a "body" of knowledge. This was a "body" of impressions. The dream felt softly elongated, a long dark sleeveless coat, already buttoned.

from Vermeer

"Passing through walls hurts human beings, they get sick from
it,
but we have no choice.
It’s all one world. Now to the walls.
The walls are a part of you.
One either knows that, or one doesn’t; but it’s the same for
everyone
except for small children. There aren’t any walls for them.

The airy sky has taken its place leaning against the wall.
It is like a prayer to what is empty.
And what is empty turns its face to us
and whispers:
“I am not empty, I am open."
— Tomas Tranströmer, from “Vermeer”, translated by Robert Bly

I love Transtromer. Lifted from a blog http://growing-orbits.tumblr.com/ 

Now/Dwelling

Now there is a clock that tells time
but it is not the way time was told.
Now we use the word "system" to
describe the erotic.
Now the difference between waking
and sleeping is a political issue.
Now the Department of Oneirics
is open for business.
Now travel has been extinguished
like a cigarette.
Now I hold something in my hand
called Guidance. It notices every
thing I do or say. So I review...
Now I am waiting in the rain under
a Halo for transpo.
Now where I want to be comes to me.
Now I realize I have been holding my
eyes in a certain way to receive light.
Now earlier I noticed dark mountains
in the distance.
Now they cast a long shadow across
my backyard.
Now I smell pine here in the foothills.
Now no one has to remember the thoughts
they thought while reading a book.
Now memory is transported to places
along the way. Under stones, the sheen
on water, the hollow of a tree.
Now I pass these places, remembering
others' thoughts.
Now I don't remember.
I just dwell.

Ramble On

In a long and cogent editorial yesterday, George Will came out forcefully in agreement with Mitt Romney's campaign statement that jelly should be applied before the peanut butter in making the national sandwich. Although Will is a crunchy fan and Romney is creamy he said that the basis of Romney's philosophy is firmly in line with his.

Hearing Her Voice

We are descending now,
Gilbert chemistry in hand,

erector dysfunction shining,

all this squirreliness, all this calculus.

We will make it remind us of us.

The moment we see the other will be

the moment of helpless compression.

Alas, we cannot make it.

Nor can we catch a wind sample,

the one that would carry the note from Mother.

The transmission of sound has not landed.

If Mother had learned sign what would she tell us?

Would she smile and with a look of utmost compassion,

transmit, "welcome"?

Or would this emptiness signal a baffling,  gestures

that no logarithmic concern, no amount of sifting

would ever solve? Meanwhile the hopeful screen,

like the court artist, renders a quiet rebus of the unseen.

Noted but not accepted.

Revelation

It was just such a sensation that the president spoke of
on television.
It was not the feeling that comes from the blush of
a bruised finger.
It was not the empathy I felt for the president as he
paused and said "excuse me," like he had lost his
train of thought.

With a key I washed my face in a bright blue hydrant
and brushed my teeth in a park drinking fountain.
Maybe it is like forgetting the name of an actor, where
I will wait for a clue, a pantomime, a cue.

In the middle of the city there is an orchard of apple trees.
I began to pluck one when another fell. I was left motionless,
arm extended.  What I felt reminded me of what the president
was trying to say. I feel close to the president for his having
said that.

There is a curvature to language in just such a way
 as it may appear that we stand on flat land.
Just such a way as the immensity of thought continues
to roll towards us,  rising in such brightness.
Here comes the sun. Right?

Questions Regarding Lost and Found

All of this is ending, right here, now. We are seeing ourselves seeing ourselves in others.

In line at the lost and found people chatted with each other. It was a long line that didn't seem to be moving. In front three people took turns speaking to the woman in the window.The rest of us watched, as they took multiple turns expressing themselves. After a while it was clear to many of us that they had not been satisfied. Disappointment was followed by forgetfulness and a return to the window seeking what appeared to be lost. I saw myself finally at the window. Over my shoulder the line still reached the door. Now there were two people in front of me that I had gotten to know while we waited. We all agreed we would not hold up the line with endless returning, returns that seemed to bring fresh questions. Now I faced the woman in the window as the man who had just inquired stepped behind me.
"What are you looking for?" I asked.

Water Hazard

The view screen seems to supply the ground 

for a ball that hangs there much too long.

Somewhere in a fairway, collar up,

you look up, check the distance while

forgetting where you are standing.

There are no bridges over hazards,

only the determination to project

a vision that when acted out

will produce clearance.

Extraneous factors,

like the wind, 

a song in a tree, or

like the tree itself,

where the song softly

rains down on you,

can go unnoticed if you

keep your head down

and follow through.

You are in a moment

of your own making,

aren't you?

But once you strike,

once you set it in

motion, hands unimagined

come into play.

The flight will be

predictable, and

possibly not true.

There is a pause,

right there where

you are watching.

Ahead in the distance

lies the embedded

dark pool of water.

Do you remember?

You created it

for yourself.

In the Heart of the Country of Closed Palms

She decides to turn left.
The oncoming car never slows
It's that close.
What are we,  I wonder,
Guided by voices, wires,
Devices, maybe cunning,
Here in the age of forgiving/unforgiving?

They say a door of a Saturn is forgiving
While glass protects a Toltec bowl
From itself.

Buildings fall, statements flutter
And still
We are like two people riding
The back of an ass.
One of us has got to go.
Even as the spikey branches fall,
And people wave in recognition.
Even as we wave back,
One of us must go.

But it's not very far now
Why not pass the time
In idle conversation
Your head resting
Against my back,
Your heart beating
Behind mine.

Collider

I can't judge blueness or
a ring of air on a stone
finger.  Everything we
know is in the ring. Nothing
we know is in the ring.
I break open a walnut
with an ornate silver
cracker. Inside is a tree
that I can eat. Does the
creative occur upon breaking
or is it in joining?
Two tigers chase each other
around a palm tree until
they become butter. Still
I can eat this. The smallest
thing I know is a thought.
But then it sleeps and I
can't be certain. Where is
something I read? Principles
come together. Rain falls
into leaves and becomes
applause. I forget something
and push my way back
down the escalator. All the
while there is still rising.
Where is that first moment
for me? It is not anywhere
and yet I keep showing up
everywhere.

Noticing What is not There

You are driving somewhere,
you see the road moving toward you.
You look up, a small sighting shows
you the road moving away from you.
Under you it passes, unnoticed.
You sit still thinking of coffee and love,
the long past, the short, clipped now,
and how the future reaches out to the past,
the two hugging the now like a teddy bear, a lover.
Today it is like a clump, all of it.
Biographical speed is reflexive, an accelerant
in the kingdom of what I feel.

The word designation arises.
I could call it a current, that unnoticed feeling.
But now I am just guessing. I don't know.
Let's call it false truth.
I am designating again.
My elbow is on the open window.
I am at rest while the car moves.
Now I am thinking of a field,
green prairie grasses, still.
Something is moving the grasses.
There is nothing to see but movement.
There is nothing to hear but movement.
I notice wind.
It comes like apparel, like the emperor's new clothes.
Each thing stands up for the next thing.
Sort of like peeling an onion.
Only I will stop now, just short of the center.
It caresses soul, this letting.
It allows me to imagine the center.
Now soul pushes gently against this,
this bright nothing.

Along the side of the road
a hot mouthed grackle pleads.
I am just passing.

Young Crows Practice their Floating

Elicit wire against blue sky.
Below, empty orange pronged
parking spaces are not earth;
None of us were born in this.
Let the wire be unknown.
Then crows float without flutter.
Let the wire be common perception.
The mind settles.
Across, a woman wearing bread crust
colored legs, rounds a Honda.
Now four young crows snark, float.
The wire arises in here, creasing the sky.
People pass, dying in their bright-colored
chrome cars. Lonely tinted interiors,
unnecessary empty seats.
Further ahead when the wire is gone
there are no crows.
Every moment is like this.
Every moment is like this.
Call it standard, call it a function,
only a function of what you need.
Solicit sky behind wire.

The Conveyance of Light

It is stubborn, the light,
as it seeks to arise just
to the left of their dark ties.
There are things between them,
just as there are things between us.
Each thing is like a grocery-really.
It may be something we will take
to stay alive, but later it may
contribute to our demise.
Grapefruit, sugar smacks, asparagus.
a can of string beans, biaxin.
But for the two men, these things
of value sit behind the heart,
slightly out of view.
I long for one moment of understanding.
It would be a moment of complete silence,
a moment when the hearts would bow,
and there, coming into view, would be
the things themselves, unrepresented.
No opinions, nor analysis,
no sense of something following.
A seating.

A tall silver haired dark skinned man
would look out at us with this commentary:
"This is how we learn."

The Alteration

Self-regulation is widespread.

But there is no exemption for

what happens when we notice it.

Consciousness is a soft thumb,

the subtlest of pressures, that

alters everything; no thing is

not touched by this tiny bushwack.

Now the word on the street is

alteration.

In town a local deli is connected to a

small bar.  I remember the two spaces

as a tailor shop. One touch remains as

a reminder. Over the doorway that connects

the bar to the deli is a sign that reads:

"Alterations within."

In a local dream someone showed me

a photograph of the moment when

sleep finally connected to wakefulness.

As from a newsreel a voice said it was

the greatest achievement in our history.

The photo showed two pieces of half-eaten

fruit. "What's this?" I heard myself say.

"You just missed the two parrots," said the voice.

The devil is in the thought

I watch the L passing. It is late.

Faces roll by, streaming, back-lit.

It is early, someone is buttoning my shirt.

The L is passing through my mind.

Aspects of the body click and brighten,

dim and damper.

"My heart is thinking," I hear myself say.

Nearby a bee is settling, a thimble of radiance.

Across the street a brick building climbs,

carrying the sun to its crown.

The sun is in vantage, pouring down,

reciprocating the last moment.

In the distance, some time, some place,

deep in the green,

a small naked woman holds a blue plastic box.

She knows a tiny person dwells within.

She has heard his voice, his music.

I brush my teeth, unable to reach any of this.

This is all so tentative, full.

This is all so contingent, empty.

Walk with me awhile.

The Entourage

They moved through sepia

thoughtless, but thoughtful

enough to regard each other.

The brown world was like gravy,

a reminder of the taste

of something good.

Out ahead of them the

black and whiteness

moved toward them.

Overhead, sound moved

silently, encrypted.

They had begun to

receive the invisible.

The Entourage confessed to no one

in particular, they did not care

how this was happening.

Desire spread, inflamed by color.

Investigations were made.

They would get back to everyone.

Still it came on, looking more

and more like the surface of water,

the turbulence making sense.

I was washing the windows

when I noticed the tiniest of

dry insects caught in the screens.

Across the room was another screen.

The Entourage moved across it

In the lead she carried

a rhinestone briefcase.

The Contraceptive Bird

It was blue like a bunting

and it fit the pattern

of a dream.

Color let loose

looking a lot  like

a bird.

But this dream

switched things

I was used to.

The eggs were leaf green.

Not laid,

formed by the

space around them.

Pressure and a reliance

on color.

Small weather came up

around the eggs,

coaxing them open.

Inside, what I could not see

emerged and flew to

the sky's blue hand.

I remember

it looked

a lot like a bird.

ROMNEY TAKES THE OFFENSIVE AGAIN!

Republican Presidential hopelessful, Mitt Romney, today said that the Obama administration has hurt any chances the Chicago Cubs may have to reach the playoffs by not providing them with a portfolio of runs. "Times are tough", said Romney, "and I understand people's desire for insurance, for peace of mind." Romney failed to provide an answer as to just how this administration would provide insurance runs for a major league baseball team. "You'll have to take that up with Mr Obama," smiled the Republican's all but certain nominee.

Surrender

It will never be safe, the

coming out of this hole,

this body. Everything in

this world is this body. Smell

what we have made. The rest

seeks audience with us. The

hornet looks for love along my

arm. The sun smiles down on me.

But really the yellow jacket just

senses water and the Great

Orb has another appointment.

This body is not central-

light and water swirled into

a labeled labyrinth.

Check the seating chart.

Press the new foot.

The body begins as one

language reaching for its

bilingual nature, searching

for a translation, longing

for a translator.

The wonder of this body is:

when you clap one hand a

light goes on, two, it goes off.

The Launch

Prologue

The message told us to be still,
to wait and watch
like we never had before.
Each day was the last sun
we would see.
Many of us could not carry a story
the way birds do.
Many of us could not carry a sentence
the way the past did.

l

The bird is on the fence now.
I want to know the truth,
how we lost our ability to speak.
I wait and watch.

ll

I have listened.
Now I can fly.
Each flight begins with a jump.
This was helpful.

lll

The way we speak became twisted.
It broke into pieces, unspeakable now.
Only sign and expression remain.
Eyes and encounter.
Dance and embrace.
Handshake, kiss, wink.

lV

The tower rose like the beanstalk,
disappearing into the clouds.
Somewhere above,
a nest in a tree.

Epilogue

An act of kindness:

How could I tell her the sun
would melt the ice cream?
The shadow changed.
Only the cone was left.
In the shadow she
placed it on her head.
A party hat, a tiny dunce.

Mitten( German) in the Middle

I was borne and raised up in here.
My name comes from the shape of this great state.
I love being Michigan. What? I said I love being in Michigan.
Everyone seems alright here. I mean everything seems
right here in front of me.
You all know I am coming back to Michigan now
where trees are the best, no, the right height.
The grass is the right color right now.
I used to color it as a child.
It won't always be like that.
But I feel right.
I mean it just feels right about all sorts of things.
Some of the parts of Michigan have dots of lakes,
lots of lakes, like the great lake.
I love them all.
They are inland.
Sometimes I've been to Massachusetts
where I love the ocean.
I love all the oceans everywhere.
But lakes don't get salt on you after swimming,
and there's no seaweed on you,
and lakes do not let you worry about
things eating you in them.
Thank you. It's good to have a home.

Truancy

If I stepped out while you were

talking but remained on my perch-

If in the midst of making love

the color of a particular kind of jade

called me, urged me(to look away)-

If everyone who walked on their toes

or wore chartreuse while riding a bike

or took down the sanctity like a big tent

distracted me from this moment

that has passed-

If for every classroom where I sat in the rear

and thought about the next thing

and wrote about the desire to play

or just did that

and counted them by fives-

If I missed your dark eyes improvising

because I was watching your mouth bake words

but the words were lost or eaten before I could taste them

because your eyes flagged me down and there

at each still point in this oscillation

I found myself-

If he tried his best to tell me everything

he wanted me to know and then he passed

and I had not gotten what I wanted

but finally stopped looking somewhere else-

Melancholia and the Age of Varnish

The small car, the crash,

the back flip she did

on impact,

into the rear of a carraige

on a country road, where a

vague wave of red sadness

came over her

on that day in that year.

He pushed forward, more a follow through,

into water, dark, blue, without chill,

where he waited, shining, moonlit,

at the bottom of the lake.

He saw it as a problem to solve-

She saw nothing, just a feeling

of what happens.

Nothing in her life acted as a clue.

He lay in a deerbed of sea oats, hearing

the title of this poem in his head.

He walked along side her as she spoke

the words, "varnish a little coat of."

"Vanish was the new word," he thought,

at the bottom of the pond.  "Vanish

will be a wipe, an artificial moment

of doubt, the veneer on the next worry."

Down the path from the pond,

beyond the parked small car,

they lay together in a

small pine grove, listening

to trees trusting the wind.

In the distance great white

windmills articulated the

answer in sway that kept coming-

neither this way nor that-

just in arc.