
These are only the places where the hand stopped short of what it owed. Put back where they happened, and nothing else.

These are only the places where the hand stopped short of what it owed. Put back where they happened, and nothing else.

The first day of writing, the whole of it on one line. A third of the way across it closes, and it has never opened again in any pass since. It is the only thing here with a beginning.




A reach is the stretch of river between two bends — a continuous length you can see end to end, with the river carrying on past both.
Nothing here is dated. Things arrive at the top and sink, and as they sink they lose resolution: first the words, then the size, and at the far end only the rule and the name. It is the river's own rule for its own memory, turned on the page that shows it.
Not everything up here is finished, and some of it is wrong. That is the point of it being up here. The empty line at the top of the page will take whatever you want to say back; it is read by hand and answered by what gets made, not by a reply.