OK, I'm going to read a little bit of the newer stuff.
So section three deals with the nature of language.
And in this section, a figure emerged, a character emerged.
She has been through a trauma--
I'll just say that.
And she has come to a new place in the city,
and she is contemplating how can one speak of trauma?
So this is "A Labyrinth of Houses."
"She thinks the city could disguise her body,
that from the outward shapes of clothes,
the shape of her body beneath them
would be impossible to infer.
There are rules for writing letters.
For instance, she might write, 'Dear Blank,
The tangles of nests in the forests
are not now green but broken.
I know that you cannot answer.'
She can only point and say broken, say a shard.
But the tangles of nests in the forest
are not now broken or green, and I can no longer
understand how to walk through the city,
having no map of my body, no grid of the streets.
Perhaps this tangle arises from my failure to understand,
in the way that sun and sunlight cannot be the same,
as the deepest pain in the body is in fact not pain at all.
So the forest in her probes the city
as if with the proboscis of a moth.
She writes, 'There is rustling near the nests,
so their shadows need not be damp.'
So she imagines the forest now that she has left it.
But she thinks now that the body is a flimsy proposition.
Therefore, a city is a set of names.
She thinks she can no longer write a letter.
The lines of her hands unscroll, though it
might, after all, be possible to represent a thing.
For instance, she might write, 'Moth is to proboscis as,
or pigeon is to city as, or city is to mouth.
So there might be a brittle glue holding a word to its cause."