When the swallows haul up into skywe would correct their color with digitalprojection. We would look into the eyeof the projector. It will singe our retinas.Make lace of them. We swoonover the geometry of vision. It isthe geometry of a postcard plus a point.Sleeping above rooftops I hear a truckloading / unloading as the dawn stilltakes requests. Its long low lowingthe desperate voice of granite pushingmetamorphic schist or the corporateannouncement that another uncomformityhas been amassed by the seabed.But you know this. You finger the palmlinesof the seafloor. Tell me does evolution failto track independent truth or must we constructfiner tools, weightier estimations? Tell me—