At a loss for anything to say, I let my eyes pan
past mandala ceiling braque walls and so to squares into garden. The immense
Turkish novel makes me speechless with enjoyment. Edged into place by expert
tradesmen, each square maintains its illusion of separation. Diamond-pointed at
its corners, one durable transparency wakes in me lost memories. Sun will warm
what fire liquefies. The December when first I wrote my own thoughts in happily
mistaken imitations. The turrical trees foreground individual chlorophyll
catchments that we call leaves, taking all the time. One small stone could
fracture everything, then rest again.
The immense Turkish novel
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