she tries on one body after another,
but they are all misfits.
Finally she is obliged to return to his own body,
to reassume the leaden mold,
to become a prisoner of the flesh,
to carry on in torpor,
pain,
and ennui
Meaning has gone. . . . Look, the loop of the figure is beginning to fill with time; it holds the world in it. I begin to draw a figure and the world is looped in it, and I myself am outside the loop; which I now join – so – and seal up, and make entire. 