Nonrebellion: history is about who you are as it is happening, not what’s happening. Hold your open bottle up to the moon and watch the level sway—the world being a euchre deck and you are the jack of diamonds waiting anxiously to be claimed. You are the nine of clubs, forgetting the day. Next, the queen of hearts walking barefoot into the room after a bad dream. It lands here—you sleep. Always, the urge to finish—the bowl of berries, the ornaments in boxes, the oblong potatoes darkening in the oven: clouds at sunset. I sit in the cell of my office and read into exile—Chinese, French, even American. The squares of the living room rug no longer comfort. My aspiration is to be on no one’s mind, to face west on a shelf and bet everything on you. I went to the river today and waded deeply until I felt the current nearly take me—then I backed off. I found it. There was a day in a cut cornfield when my brother winged a goose and it came down running. In the chase’s panic, I fired—my brother, downfield, heard the shot tatter the stalks and earth behind him. The line became very stark—the limit wholly luminous. I found it, I found it. I’m so sorry.