(Oh

but I only gone and diddled-up the Two of Us, en
plein air and in toto too. And yes, I do still hang about

outside the woods. Hum-Spun, sotto. Riddled, I saw
us once, or I thought I did: a lake, we were, or leaves,

or sticks; kind, spitty, skipped. Dripped, we seemed so
freshish. A Modelled Cough of bone we were, and then

some gleaming gibber, and then some squeak of window
onto a vagabond outside: Trees, sky, trees. We were

unfunny in a perfect way. Contos li masso. Masso li
mono. and time, hung heavy on my hands. I scribbled

so, I daubed solo, always Seemingly Doodling. Also,
these painted slits I make to compensate: out-dropped

my trumped-up innards, boiled meats, but distinct and
all, like wet, slippery books on Subjects Medical, like a

trawled up catch, like a library in a Sunken Ship in which
doc-fish have their offices, in which they have their

foffices. Like so many things in fact. And the watery dust
down there in the damn poor, drowned deep among

the monging sea’s ballooning sulk’s, enormous Blousy
Blossom’s bosom. But oh, Here in the tidy dry only our

terrific bones, and only once upon a time, referred to
honest Clatter. I used their grinded dust for dyeing.

Lantoto. Li conto pontoona. Li Fisca Mattera. Contoto
parato, li pa-ra-to. This is it. This is de-fi-nite-ly it.)

Mark Waldron