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The pleasure of cratered statues. Flowers of fractured cubes and mannequin bouquets. Creams, Latin grammar manuals and the seams of torn fabrics. Yarn from childish dolls and little brittle hairs. An aisle lost in aisles of aisles and aisles alone. Rafters, ice-skating bandages and shattered ceiling candles. Taboo of wax grapes and petit-bourgeois artichoke convolutions. Panels of copper-piping virgins. Post-it-notes and sprained-ankle pamphlets. The coverlet of your pillow. Unfathomed wheels and hearty transcriptions of Public Discourse. Pearl-eyed banisters and sandwiches wrought in iron. Letter-press monographs on widgets, inflated mistresses and elbow assembly lines.

The eyeliner of academics and party vials filled with real vampire tears. Chap Stick. Names without human smell. Quartz balloons, and a flea-museum automated with wind. Granite sponges and crimpled scarves. Busty mothers in plaster. Plummy coupons. Frigidaire neurasthenia, dispassionate conga-boosters and shredded winning tickets from future lotteries. Clicking of throat locks and clanking of cement weeds. Moorish minuets. Bibles and belt-straps. Bootlace and garter-hose. Bronze planks and papier-mâché debris. Doggy whistles. Ivory plants. Chopin’s algebra. Still Life with Bridle. A Victrola sitting in a garden built up in straw. Barbed-wire lyricism.

The complete, re-mastered recordings of The Labyrinths of the Sea. Mock-up dwellings of Dordrecht and Arles and storyboard towns of Catholic philosophers. Afternoons. Islands. Carbon phonographs. Tawny tea-bells. Mobile phones the size of embryos. Continental breakfasts. Old hats. Mesopotamian bumper stickers. Photograph of “Night” plowing “Chalky Rose.” Film projectors and postcards—rashes of them, and vintage boxing clothes. Book-bindings of rather indifferent glue. One punctured tympanum beside miniature giraffe. Spigots and faucets. Yawning monitors. Banner reading: “There’s still plenty of time. There’s always time.” Your image on the emblem of a gnome.