A late night. An early morning. I arrive delayed. Fretful.
Does the blue clerk fret over the delayed reader?
Here, “on the rim of a page without verbs,” “are we not human unnumbered,” unnumbered. I am returned to being from those who do not believe in counting, who believe that to count is to invite death, to invite endings, because numbers end, and even infinity lives in the logic of the counted and the counting.
A peek. A glance. “I saw the author.” And the work of the clerk, to know “where the salt, where the sugar, where the flowers, the museums and corpses,” and we are in the sea, in residence time, the sodium of those unmade human, the sugar made by those still unmade human, who, thiefing sugar, find “unclassified ways of saying let us go.”
The list that is not counting. The list that does not count. To be listed and listing and listful and listfull, “the small blue book of the author’s thoughts to decipher.”
To fret with “the things collected in her brain.”