after Kazimir Malevich


A prospect like a street I become
as I walk it, the agent of walking
as if blood on the lip: a kind
of hunting in which one eats
prior to capture: I perceive
an arrow, the arrow turns in
on itself, o complex
presentiment. How long before I
walk into the sea remembering
what the kelp felt like: like felt.
I think a line into the future
but on the sidelines history is
pressed along its pleats. I think
the period is a decimal point,
I dare not be more precise. I think
I’m not human, I’m grammarian.
There was a future, the future
passed. So a will was there,
now there isn’t.