a loose collection

~ i. ~ you gave me a wooden puzzle you made as a boy, but in my hands it forgot its charade, and the pieces from a distance look like nothing in particular. if only objects could be their simple selves, not these avoidant encyclicals borne half the conviction, bound up none of the coherence. yet left myself to unforget, a circle is the least of my worries. by and by, lord, by and by. ~ ii. ~ i'm trying to write something about dirt and gravity and how when a lot of dirt moves a certain way it gets a name from an old god despite being just dirt and that i get a name too despite being myself only a loose collection. what a very vague taxonomy. something about Adam and the dust of the earth. it's not very good yet. ~ iii. ~ i heard an echo scatter dense from the white corner where the foyer wall meets the ceiling, but i couldn’t recognize its maker.