Rich Ives Trying to Make a Pile of Ants with Invisible Tweezers In my attic I have Wordsworth mice, but walking backward doesn't always lead to yesterday. What if the feeling that something's missing is the only thing missing? Would you like me to entertain your innocent coffee while the Dickinson student butters a roll? She sighs the best powdery sound of moth wings, watching everything leaning and parting, one possible way to be mistakenly right where she needs to be. The soft yellow window in the abandoned house, the angle of reception there decidedly wrong, lets the greater feeling enter you, moving an emptiness to a different location, an exotic hole in its self-importance grown bent over again with despair at the Keats table. I find the shadow of his bread in my hands. Disgraceful behavior awaits me.