I have told many things and want
to tell more in a small time    to count far off,
since 'nothing distinguishes me
ontologically from a crystal, a plant,
an animal, or the order of the world'
simply
            and 'we drift together toward
the noise and the black depths
of the universe'      celebrate the
sudden hang-up of our visibility,
celebrate the sudden beauty that
is not ourselves     careless   unwrapped
(ducis)   the solar origin drifts
in the same boat
                              what did
dance in this dancer     was
first the difference among poppies and
white horses of advertisements,
the snow-storm and the grapes
from Africa     and the smile, exactly
and repetitions, but joyous, wintering
in Sais, writing memorable letters out
of the shattered various crystals, rocks, grottoes,
leaves, insects, animals, large and
small      'plenitude and enchainment,
wings, eggshells, clouds and snows'

so, to have forgotten, from the inimitable
solar mix, 'unwilling to become a
higher key'   on Bach's bedside table,
Leibniz's De Arte Combinatoria,
at the last minute—numbers
and numbers, multitudes as
the wind is, fish, I had
forgotten miracles and money
in the mouth of, walked by, in
my lanterned garden where the
nightingale, sometimes jugged to our
joyance, various, pitch and
glass of magic grammar
and presentiments—the fabled
universe, solvent and fortunes,
the assiduous sweetness among
other stones

there we have headed for frying pans,
hospitable, and alone, or the same,
voiceless in the common name,
scattered colours, earlier shapeless,,
a candy-wrapper with a phone number
on it suffices to call the largeness, and
the smallness—what of that & on the
clothes-line, stiffened handicraft
of meaning, amenable comfort—and
Persian cats, where the rugs
flowered       take 'real' life
and store it in the cupboards,
the shoe-strings and decorations
of natural trees—whisper and
whistle of missing leaves—it's
winter—or summer      or some
other time in the great ritual
of plenitude and enchainment

the infinite who belongs to this race
of many things, the gentle death,
ignorance, and innocence last
summer, the youth of it, the
violence with roses and ivy,
sensible words, laughing rose
petal or someone     the inner
music has worn out—amidst broad
leaves and harbours, linked to
the observer,     submerged
or proximous, exactly like that
which he loves, startling noise,
clarity and shadow, the heights
of ourselves equal to our shadows,
night and day, the miracle of
many things, the 'proliferation
of geneses'

1 . Where is the point of view? Anywhere
at the source of light. Application,
relation, measurements are made
possible by aligning landmarks.Attention. One
can line up the sun and the top
of the tomb, or the apex of the
pyramid and the tip of its shadow.
This means that the site may
not be fixed at one location.

2. Where is the object? It too must
be transportable. In fact, it is,
either by the shadow that it casts
or the model that it imitates.

3. Where is the source of light?
It varies, as the gnomen.
It transports the object in the
form of a shadow. It is the
object; this is what we will
call the miracle.                                                                          )Serres

most beautiful         stars, balls,
tinsel, bubbles, red water, the wand