A socket for stomach muscle. Then a strain to armpit, to rib, to spoke, to rip at the jogging blue air. Think of the sharpest color and write it down. Viridian, porcelain, brick. The feeling is tolerable in the body only from its edges. Ribs, armpit, solar plexus, cardiogram, red red oils. Which feeling is that? My collarbone, I mean chest. Write down: go to the edges of red, where it tolerates you. Write: hurts to wake to. The feeling is sleep, is sleep a feeling? The morning light is linen. And you walk in from the weather by the edges, your shorthand in a small green notebook tracking the place of the moons here, the shapes of leaves, the shallow rifling through the contents of river-rocks. Claret sleep, bones in sheets are strange. Write: inscape, cinnabar, incompletely. Windchimes climb through the window, like ants.