engaged by


I. it takes the form —
it asks —
to move, motion its ground, itself by itself —
what is that?

a measure, a field, a machine, an assembly;
to do just what it does naught else — isn’t it free?
to exhaust all possibilities for itself by its task — isn’t it itself?
is it, and naught else?
does it and
is it? or can’t it?

to what extent do extants do?
within the thing there were there
then, nothing follows from it, them;
but if they work, or are, then they must move
and, if moving —
bent, then bending —

a thing among things or else,
it is a thing apart from things.

here is not a thing kept still, not one of them.
for, if it not moved by moves moving them, then — what else?

descriptor, sign, pointing toward it.

II. stillness at the edge of plats.
the many signs
disclosing facts.

things are what they are: what are they?

III. A thing itself by itself and its motion.
What a thing is is a thing in motion.

A thing is not a thing.
What a thing is is a thing in its motion;

not extractable:
it is its mutations.

What is seen of it.
Does it show us motion?
Does it show us us, seeing?
Do we see?
Do we move too much to?

IV. That is just the case:
how motion does not cease
and how it neither begins.

Imagine this thing in this place at this time.
And this thing moves in this place at this time —
now this thing is in this place and it is at this time —
now this thing is in this place and it is at this time —
now this thing is,
well, imagine what moves: this thing? this place? this time?
thisness moves around and about the thing staying put and the placement and the time of it danced, exchanged hands, partnerships, bedsheet, beads of sweat, everyone on their cell phones.

as though the thing played for us here and the music was it.

where the pigeons meet the dust
where the black grove dusts the
time cranes on the marsh again

these things move to completion
they complete their course, a catenary
sweeping one corner to another

as though the music was so moving we were unable to

V. If I signify, then what do I signify?
If I move the thing to a sign, then
if I move and the thing I move
a hand over a table: describe the passage of it.
Touching the thing, the hand closes it. The table will now have-been-handled. The thing-that-has-been-signed: autographed. I, author.

Do contours precede their curves? Do signs precede their sculptors?

Do I have here before me a tree, a plank, a panel, a table, wood, ash, heat, splinters?

The thing here — this one — what is it? The sign I make points you to the pith of it, but that is not it, is it? The moving toward the point, the pointing toward, the moving of the finger over the contour that moves.








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