SHELTER

To the last two days here, there is a novel-within-the novel, nothing happens and it always rains.

Short in often one or two-word sentences, reports from a stream, like a photograph.

A sudden absence from herself, circling thoughts, preoccupation with suicide (one for example: cut with scissors).

But writing can only be done about failure or loss, and here the images are birds, trapped birds inside a house.

The installation also consisting of quotations (the pleasure of research) from a Russian ornithologist, I made the cage of feather coated wires spaced gradationally, among the Calvinist tracts and the fluttering birds.

There’s a swallow trapped in a church, a long riff about saving creatures from suffering in the rain, an injured miserable cascade.

Though she is already in America, writing long letters later to become an art under her own name, the author everyone agrees almost certainly invented.

It is the blindness of a cage, in the exhumation of these bones, made into art.