It was August and the night was hot.
What we were proposing already exists.
This is a history of sincerity.
The tree uses silence.
The three layers of air flood the sky.
My face is tilted upwards.
I wanted language to be a vulnerable and exact instrument of glass, pressures and chemicals.
It has provided us with a cry but explains othing.
I understand passivity.
[...]
I wrote a story of beginnings, of beginnings, of meat, of words.
I wanted to realize failure as a form of tactile thought.
I intended to be nourished.
Because of the signals communicating from the florescent cavity of the
chest, because of the vaults of touch, because of the feral knowledge
moulded by the lips, because of the nearness to armies, because of
smallness
I intended to be nourished.
And then we went visiting.
--from R's Boat by Lisa Robertson
