The Sparks I watch from the foot of the bed. It rises at the end of what we can see of 9th Street, a fireball in the alley of tall buildings, exploding in great pins of light. I forget to think. I forget everything I have thought.
Light is what's left, alleging to have forgotten nothing.
The brown walls, the peeling paint, first one mirror and then another. My hand is here standing on its fingers. Green is many different things.