Samantha Giles
The move inside a coat1 of slipping razors. Inch it in2 those very numbers things involve. The stones3 never cease a thing, they go on. In the hollow of silence, when word4 began thing. Is clung to the touch of signs. Beyond themselves, beyond5 their swerves, that very number. Layer6 mere dust, baker of walls, to hang alert7. Most black in head, some red8 as thought, a bee. As is given9, lines to nail on, stand as10. If number could be stopped, time as everything11. A daring to step, nightside of the black cloth12 soldiers. And then carried over the town in stone vehicles, dotting the13 eyes. Plays no sensible strain, no violin knocked at the moon. There’s never been anyone in this place but us. Above a shaft, clock rungs, inadmissible wax seal on wrist.
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1How one locates oneself in one’s own language.
2Placing the hand at the underside in between the space of where the hand reaches to the underneath as in where the
hands make contact.3Within structure and hasn’t this iteration been formed at the reckoning of tongues.
4A floor plan of your house. It doesn’t have to be to scale, how you would change rooms. Feel it there: ridges.
5An obligation to the economics of structure.
6That is to say, hand.
7Feeding to the left of the objection of door. If what is to be reckoned let it be this.
8What rests. What is to be given the expectation.
9Study the catapult and figure out how catapults were used to throw a rock over the walls of a city.
10You need a release mechanism to let go of the arm instantly. A simple mousetrap is a form of catapult.
11Identify six forest trees and tell what is useful about wood characteristics.
12The hands forward in a motion approximating the current of exchange of this and this and this.
13When the weight of water. Rinse out the burned paper. Push the head back, remove the force. Almost without exception.
A part of something.