Here, in part, is what I wholly remember. It has little or nothing to do with the work, and though seemingly ending before another part begins (though mostly I fear that all the parts overlap), I am sure it accounts for, but in no way contains, something nearly unsaid (or only partly overheard) that turns away into the outskirts, or somewhere thereabouts, of a place where there was always someone calling out for snow. The snow in itself, though hardly an aside, is not meant to gather up in this part that I recall. But if my memory withholds what accumulates from drift, what becomes of the work (through what became of one summer) comes apart far too close to everything I’ve barely known. So instead I bend the work out across between seasons. This flexing of the work tends to occupy the lapse, and the work takes the place of what the lapse could not contain. But if the lapse could not contain any part of my memory, does the work now become what I was meant to recall? The work is not snow or what became of one summer, but it appears to approach (from where it buckles from itself) what seems to be the source of what empties out from both. This approach curves away from the work moving forward, and is blurred by the clarity of my oncoming past. This clarity might include what became of my body, or certain parts of a world made of worlds in between. What was nearly unsaid (or only partly overheard) is defined by what pushes out from under the work. It is the earliest lasting outcome of a season ending late, or what results in remembering what forgetting might imply.

a becoming throughout of what remains in between

david
mclendon