I took off my glasses
& pocketed them.
I took out my eyes
& tossed them up
for the crows to catch
& turn to
notes. I felt
the wind. The one crow
landing on the ranking
branch. Staring
at me. Felt
that. It was all
flowing now. I made
my way to where I was to join
the others. The others
were all already
there. There was
chanting, there were orders, the instructions were
loud. Impatience
made itself at home
in all these distances of shoulders, of
hands. Everyone sang. I cld hear its
shuddering. Impatience, I sd,
stop now while you
can. It’s a big flock. We’re entering
the network. There’s smoke. The air
all around me knows
not to hold anything
for long. Bc it is this unison of
breath, this unison of
mind the big wind is
after. The crows
watch. More & more gather in
the canopy. Where
shall we meet up
afterwards, someone
cried out. Here. Exactly
here, was the answer.
I listen to the day.
I remember the rule of law, the rule
of the two-second advantage,
it sounds like endings,
a vacancy expecting re-
velation, re-
evaluation, expecting
to become a river of selves, of dis-
appearing selves, us all
stepping again now into the self-erasing
crowd, the air
full of receipts, of tips, of signals by which
we are expecting to be
changed. It glides. It carries
me. Ever more alive. I made sure
I never had to see
the horizon
again I think – I did – I did it
voluntarily, I think I did it
voluntarily, it is
so dry this
chant into which we’re
disappearing, the killing
continues but now we call it
decay, or is it delay,
did I love myself
too much or too
little, I think I was lied
to, I am not what I
look like
in this growing
crowd, when I think back
to the screen where I was singled out where I was
called,
I didn’t look like
me, I had been searching there
for what the
questions are, what
the question
is – is there
a question – the chanting gets louder
as we approach, it sounds just like
answers but what was
the question. I
remember asking those
around me. I think one sd
it’s a game, it’s a theory, but
just then everything
you’ve read about
for all these years
began. Right then. As if it were planned. As if we were
expected. It has not ceased since.
If you can hear me there,
if this reaches you,
forgive us,
we did not know who we were.
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.

