Dead hand in my hand responding, turning, dead taste in my mouth like stale rice. Histories of fear: How the king was dismembered. And when only an arm and head were left was asked, “Are you still sentient?” Yes: the big blue eyes staring out hard and clear to the horizon muttering She and onlie she /what shall I do without Che farò senza and where do it? — on what map, on what paper smeared with dismal farms. The answering silence

2. The answering enemy, the Warrior who tried to kill my voice but missed and struck a hole just above my eyes, black ticket to the cancelled future, small with insipidity and unresponse, caught in the dream unable to [wake, die, love] at the mercy of time’s silence again — but also, “a kind of turning” [tillvändhet: to/from-ness] /these, who craved for life, and lie, like left-overs on a plate, rubbish in the street. Plimsoll altars, full of static, all the messages wrenched to a capsule, until the unfolding. Until the soul is called out of it (because someone needs it) — father, mother, wife, turn again.