—book of the there we’d have been— We remained entranced by words positing a world beyond their reach, that words don’t go there said with words. They were speaking for the we that was no we they knew. It wasn’t music went where words were unable, it was aroma consubstantial with crease and declivity, the beloved’s cleavage’s remit… There was a we so whole it couldn’t be added to, the lover and the beloved’s extrapolative extent. An arche- type, some had said, auguring more, a certain polis bound up in it, sort-of more than certain, the we or the would-be we we’d be. Doubletalk ob- tained its lease. It felt good to be where words did not go and we were glad, no matter they didn’t sound like what they were… All was not lost we were secretly believing, a host insistence we held or that held us. Another nakedness had overtaken us, deeper than before and affording no glamor, the is of as-it-is exactly as it was, as with nothing not said nothing left. A too-late eternity chimed at every stop on the train we were on, the boat we rode, the bus we were on… Who was to know a banana Nub was the Nub we’d be in we were asking. The body’s propensities the mind’s obsession, the remanding of which was meat for the lit season spring would be, a garland for the lit- up wind, bodies dressed in cloves and rosemary. “These,” we declared, “begin to be auspicious, as though am- bage never happened our way, a sign of the return of signs.” We had all gone off to hibernate, inside or astride the exploding moment or aside from it, we the unexcited excitable ones. All was not lost we were secretly be- lieving… “Density, be our boon,” we stood intoning, some- thing said in another tongue it seemed. One spoke with a balloon in one’s jaw and with bubbles coming out of one’s head, all the gathered-up glory’s urgency and ferment no longer one’s own, had it ever been. An unacted-on whim, an adamantine desire, our place was no place but polis manqué. A spectral world it was we were in, cracks in our heads the bubbles came out of. Some- thing like fate moved among them. “Everything I have is yours” had been said, toxins at large and afoot. A violin grew out of one’s neck, one’s body’s propensities baf- fling, be- set • No words did Andreannette’s churchical girth justice, her Lespugue-like buxomness gathered into one em- brace. We were the tribe whose madonna she was, she of the auto-apocalypse we moment to moment were shot back by. A continuing book of the there we’d have been we were in, a book that, hung up and caught out, was a book that wasn’t one… Whatever it was and wher- ever it was, it came back to there being a body to be or not be in, a beyond words knew no way of reaching, a where that they already were. Did it make it different if there was a different name for it we were wondering, rhythmic remit shown to be what soul was, fetishized back and but- tocks, the width of the world in our grasp addressing her, the so-called sodality we were ____________________ We dreamt everyone had gone away, no one could be reached. We sensed eternity existing without us, more where than when, the where words would not go. Something like fate or like foreboding moved among us, Andreannette’s thick madonna, thin with late-life proffer, thick for the occasion again… We’d been busy looking for signs, each the one that had no name according to lore, Philippé’s “Well, well, well, well, well” spun us around, the going away of love being liberty the lie Nub told itself… They were each the one lore said had no name, the signs we saw, lore itself a kind of naming we could see, a there there were no words in, might it be • What it was was there we were among the muses, a ladling of sand on the shore up and down Lone Coast. It would not explain itself. All manner of crev- ice and curvature abounded, foothill, grass light, late afternoon sun, a tenuous bond between body and shoreline, scrub and eucalypti farther in. We bit our bottom lips. We pounded the heels of our hands together, the is of what it was under epic sur- mise… “There’s a there the word ‘there’ makes us think there is,” Andreannette proclaimed, Andre- annette our priest, our possessor, “a there no word not ‘there’ can reach.” A longing for where it was over- came us. We were wanting a there the word that was whose rumor was whose location.
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