Distance is money just out of reach, br a kindness like rain-laden clouds br that never drops its coins. Epochs br of fossilized trees crawl rusting hillside br strata: they smell like somewhere else br I've never been, an Anatolia br just outside the mind. Geometries br of travel and desire (from here to want br and back again), the myths of pleasure br reinvent another ancient world: oiled boys br racing naked around the circular walls br of Troy to find out who will wear br the plaited wreath, parade painted circuits br of unburnt parapets waving br to the crowds. See, even night br adores him, dresses him in its moon br and apparition. The sheen of intention br is on him, translates his motions br into marble, alabaster. (Cassandra br wakes and says There isn't going to be br a Trojan war. Centuries of fossil speech br fill up the space that comes after br currently, years spent talking br to paper.) Man and moment br become one, his reliquary skin br makes white occur (by now br the sweat has faded from his garish br details). The things his hands become br act out interruption, history br is his story, held at bay. He wears time br on his body (wears it out), chases gods br from mountaintops until the myth-smoke br clears. His old world's blurred br and hard to read, misunderstanding br becomes a place: galley br run aground on shallow skin br the color of no event.