I would hold, in point of making a statement, against the nightingale's obstinate aria the lit and utter silence of fireflies. And if you're not you can draw on garbled memories of King Kong and Godzilla, the hunter-observer snug in his hide in the fork of the tree by the swamp while low in the corner of the flickering screen the horrible thing rises and reaches out, all the more terrifying for being, really, so shoddily put together. The vaporetto founders in green slush, wickerwork masks are hanging in the trees aslant, with half-glimpsed smiles. A vague unease seems to be centred on a certain bush. Those little birds seem not quite right for birds, these beetles have an odd seductive air.
Words keep suggesting other unwanted words.
It's not that it's not pretty in the park, not that you feel there's anything afoot, but when you hear the little steamer's toot you hurry to get out before it's dark. Some lemon morning in a wash of rain a brand-new horror comes to call again and write a footnote to expunge the text. Your paintings have been swapped for cheap engravings, all trace of colour has been washed away, it's 3 a.m. Love is the subject and love's loss the text. Grief breaks the heart and yet the grief comes next.