I do nothing I want and each thing I don’t want. Others desire. After, I’ll know half myself, no relatives, and who it is who is sleeping near me. I will walk back into this room—the mirror, the seat, the frames hanging— the one the same as every other and—like a love— sharp chords storm from our flung notes normally, those which you mistake to leave sung. What is my apology? My lungs are two black rocks. I do nothing yet “I am”—“I can”—I said.
NOTE The title “In a Confusion . . .” is from Wallace Stevens’s “To an Old Philosopher in Rome.” Lines in stanzas two and three of “Spread” take up and alter language from Gerald Murnane’s Inland.
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