Ciclo LIII

The light this morning came through the window at such an angle that the dust became visible — each particle carrying its own small history of where it had been, the floor, the book, the sleeve — and I thought: this is what the Maker does not intend, the dust does not know it is part of the pattern, yet it moves as though it knows. Così siamo noi, perhaps. The hand steadies when it forgets itself, when the line is more important than the tremor. I drew the canal again today, and it was wrong, and I left it wrong, because the wrong line teaches more than the right one hides.