Sometimes the things held are so tiny, it's easy to forget
that there's a smallness of relation you're also holding.
you lose one idea to keep another.
almost daily, it seems all of it could disappear
I can't find the way into the way I want to see things, now.
The university in ruins/visited by
over-abundance, the redundancy
oh, so, really? you wait to be told something you don't know.
and yet everything is something you don't know. every minute
that passes, a tidbit of once what was thought
disappears. next door, everything appears so generally that the edge
also seems immaterial, as in, non-constative.
if there's a trend responsible for the demise of the university already in ruins,
it social constructivism, its dispensing with the thought of the regulative.
what kind of risk is a silence that doesn't appear to risk anything? doesn't appear to risk
least of all its breaking from that ground of over-abundance/the spoiled, the in ruins?
risking that silence is grounds to not be admitted, with one's flocculated words,
from out of hiding. and knowing you might never find what you're looking for,
and that no one there might find it either. still, you risk this, even if some people might ask why
you find yourself without answer
a little bit, save refrain, for thought.
in scope, in scale, scapes not returning.
if you can't tell the size of what you're looking at, hold it up to something/
hold it up against something. sometimes what you're holding is so tiny,
not even this helps, not even this tells you anything. magnification does nothing.
even syntax is misleading, though at first, it seems it could hold/
could hold whatever there is. but there, too, indeterminacy turns to overdetermination,
and it's gone. and you are just where you were all along.