I've always written (poetry) in ways others have found "difficult". But what does that mean? I never expect you--reader--to trace the thought through. Perhaps there never was a thought at all? I read "The colors of the world are its elements" (IncubationA Space for Monsters; Bhanu Kapil) and think for me the world is textures moving like tectonic plates over our cerebral surfaces. What point is there in capturing a hummingbird in flight? Stop-magic is death. I'm moving through the flow of the universe, the galaxies slipping over the black screen of the night echoing me back to me, you to you, the us-ness remains the state of mortal discontent. A wound will close up. Then what is left? I want to be a very deep gash. I want to leave a scar.