we’ll start without knowing and get nowhere, considering your dandelion-clock hair as halo, your voice as trumpet call, your being near as elixir. so I’ll fix on your self & to hell with the skin – tell me this does the soul weary, or stay a firm-fast point? and if the ghost beats out of time with the face, the clipping issues sure sign that something was made out of joint and, sure enough, I’m unsure, but behind you flickers something broad, brute & divine; that scarred retina double-image, my love.