The tea as if steaming? Was it? No it was unaltered, this void of vision, a weft of air — what was that light? How then? Tangled among trunks to the hight of brittle ether, a page effaced forgetting, leaving the moments wreathed back again to smooth, adrift, where motion dips in chasing sunlight — a tree shaping shadow upon rock.

• Mina Loy