[The Chapter of the Rending in Sunder]

And then I began my habit of walking at night to get rid of the strings, witherings. The Lord revealed to me that I am full of birds turned smoke and hook è d strings. I say to the Lord, Lord take a string. I have named it mesas ringed with beeswax wicks, footsteps sowing up my stairs, tambourines in trees. Then a tedious, gruesome miracle unfolds, for the Lord takes the string and what attends it. Walking over a grate there is the sound of the grate. Margarita Mondays mean exactly that. I say, how could I eat? I ate. And how can I sleep? I shake. The Lord says, look at the branches, how they braid over graves. And the Lord says, look at the HandiMart, a bright, ordered box. They have their grief, the people there. Now the tableaus mass color, now the tableaus fall down. I say wet pavement keep on holding me up. Wet pavement hold me up. Now the fetishes crumble, now the meteors cup. The Lord says, I meant of it a blessing. And I say, I made of it a curse. The Lord says, sound of roots, sound of shoots, sound of asphalt, sound of cars. I say, I am walked into deeps. Here are the jewelthreads and throbbings that I need to leave. The Lord says, chomp and be chewed, alleluia. Sever and stitch, alleluia. Exceedingly, the Lord says,bar,barr,barr. I say snowfield? Snowfield? Pi ñ on roasting? Chaparall? The Lord says, is what you want the terrible free? And I say to the Lord, Lord speak. And the Lord says, sound of earth in orbit, its muffled, its four-chambered beat.