Afternoon of rushed exposure to perspectives multieval into the exile of an author whose work arrived to me, a decade til recently, in practically biographiless, iconoclastic form, the box dragged across Rome vis-a-vis a friend's mom, acquaintance, it turns out, vis-a-vis Emily D.,

with the highlight the certainty, glimpsing four angles in a small album, that these are the poet's point of view, on an Abruzzi forming the background to her Serie ospedaliera—

the lines of the trees terrifically regular paralleling the lines of the book she reads from in another image, I see, guess, occupying, for the first and last time perhaps, Rosselli's actual sights—

then entering Maura Biava's open studio breathless after this circuit of imperfect homes forged here & there in Fascism's aftermath,

surrounded by verbal formulas having taken on concrete form, ceramic, wooden, Carrara'd, the robots guided by prototypes making concepts to perch quizzical on columns in the elevator shaft of this pavilion made briefly a home,

before moving on, truckful of tidal pools of tactical creatures material and abstract, the math of them misheard by recorded conversant as mouth,

& discussing in a corner this very site within Eternity, to recall the irony in Rosselli's third title, the Document of verse being at worst arbitrary amidst the happening and exhaustion of quotidian life, at best capricious—

but, we reckon, a comely humble compromise, & perhaps a sapient one.