IV. Santa Monica, California, 1988
Therefore rest (the idea of). When one reaches an opposite coast
it's either sink or swim or else stake out one's God
on the illuminate sand. Turning back is not an option,
one can never hope to turn one's back,
the text is in the turning, this is the logic of the boustrephedon,
every text turns from next to next. Call this narrative.
I think it is crucial to know who, precisely, is being excluded from the garden.
A respite from the text, a respite from the next,
any Buick could serve as the vehicle for a Sunday nap,
any le Corbusier cube. And the sea waits like a small rickety chair
in its musty room, almost forgotten.
Note to the architects of languor:
The dead do not approach the camera with the hesitation we suppose.
Rest, too, is a concept realized consistently in one direction.
Rest is the common currency of a charming detail
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