The all too familiar fragmentary surface burn at chest height stem to stem dullness in the anterior contemplative space petals cold fingers eyes right left peripheral stare searching for a feeling to name to take to hold crease to crease to mislay except for the memory of roll over and over a woodworker’s spindle spinning smooth in the out-house across the allotment where the doomsday census counted backwards in and out the shadow and shine of the paper straw observatory a half buckyball collapsing beneath its own weight on the oil-stained floor where the splintered dinghy came to rest paint peeling collecting rainwater chrysanthemums would drink if their roots would reach across the boot-worn void. If.