The gentle tremor that has begun now in my left hand, between thumb and forefinger,
is not history. Its seed lies buried deep in sleep, in the neurochemistry of sleep
which traces its faint salt patterns on the stone of my soul. Stone of my soul,
the formal world is alive with the drained pool’s bracketing moss,
with insect life, with the toadflax and orpine, those useful entities that remind us
