The attempt to organize an overpowering sensation—a mood, not the word but the environment:
the cold lantern, branches against the window, that calling out that passes through absolutely everything.

The obsessive need to transfer an emotion.

The attempt to communicate a memory, a ghost, an idea that has traveled every possible shoreline
and sleeps in a cave.

The lingering fragrance of Eurydice: conscience, pebble, seasons come and gone.

The obsessive need to transfer an emotion.

A process of representation that exposes subject matter to the appetite of the artist.

Acknowledgement that all math has changed to birds, again, crows to be exact, crows—note the
enduring, steadfast, vigilant, repetitive quality of these creatures.

Mind the glint, possibly magenta, a jewel shaken from a storybook one afternoon and nimbly
tucked away for sustenance in the lowest hours when sleep won’t come.

A. Vecchioni