Noticing, as if there were a body of knowledge, or evidence, a case being built up, a story that was yours, that might make sense to a someone, the eternally absent interlocutor, who is also your own self. This is how the reflex sets it up, not you exactly but what gives you like nothing else in Tennessee. Being a little askew it all comes too urgently, can't resolve and goes over and over its tracks until you can 'hear' it, feel it, insisting in the heart. And then it isn't you anymore but a broken hammer, a broken jar that won't hold water, you look at it, you are the water flowing through the cracks and into the ground, into the roots brooding over the winter and the worms that dream of being snakes. Which comes first, the unblinking eye or the sweet echoes in the cave? See how they transform into each other, an endless cat's cradle, the doing, the flowering, the withering, the seed.