On the edge of the leaf a line of light, of yellow light born over the green escaped over the side catch it with a finger and then a hand he brought it up to his eye and put it through, bouncing on the ground the uneven road cracked the direction and he followed into the garden transparent and shiny to the sun.

I enter first through a stable, vast and dim where one barely sees in particular three rather big goats then a number of rough wood objects Rembrandt-brown: I find there a kind of wooden stairway by which

the door is open
like the night outside
I’ll stand to walk

the road on the wall

pulled shut

the sun from your eye