Jenny Boully
Personal and Confidential
The door was open and then it wasn’t; that was the way the water would come in—all at once or not (all at once); if rushes were rushes, they were not rushes then; because the door was heavy and then it wasn’t; because the ocean was startling then still again; it was the way the amber dripped to encase whatever stood in the way; I heard a murmur then all was quiet again; the knock signaled an arrival; there was an arrival and then it was empty again; the pages were accumulating; the pages said if/then; a murmuring was in question; the murmuring was a heaviness that would rush in; if murmuring was always murmuring then there may or may not have been an if/then; the judicial moment had been arriving; it had been arriving since then; the judicial moment would reveal what had been; what had been had been—it was a knock that had signaled an arrival; the door was open and then it wasn’t; the door was murmuring if/then; the door was open and then the water rushed in; out there was ocean; out there was a moment of quiet and then questioning and then startling and then heaviness again; there was an accumulation; that accumulation did not allow for the what had been; that knock on the door was answered and then it was quiet again; what rushed in was ocean; there was a ruin of accumulation; that was the signal of the moment; the rain fell as it had always fallen; the rain fell because there was a heaviness; the rain fell to reveal what falls when the heaviness sets in.