This kind of attention always invites fulfillment in further attention, further holding-open of space for its object.

and time! / like a breech-presented foal’s neck in the birth canal, / it telescopes, / a gentle snap, / to fall dead in the hay and mother’s foam. / “I am the dawn,” it says, / “be grateful. / Few things come so willingly at your call.”

Decadence looks around, sees nothing but rotten fruit, and gathers it in sticky armfuls to distill into liqueur. It does this in an informedly fatalist manner, taking pride in its self-awareness but without the hope that such insight will provide any way forward.