It’s the door, and beyond it is the paradise of the heart. Our things—and everything is ours—are interchangeable. And the door is a door, the door of metonymy, the door of legend. A door to keep September gentle. A door that invites fields to begin their wheat.

Simulacra, scrud, compendium
Nathaniel Hatchet, crud, Ferguson-
Skull contented satellites smear
two ponies. Smear.

“You were at that round table in the sun,
why did you move?
I said why’d you move,
you were at that nice table, in the sun?

split The Sun Sessions into high and low.
Sun made the coast impossible
to see, a static flash, the visual field