There. No - wait, it'll come: an image shooting out feelers, a glass blown off a table, a tablecloth snapping up wind. No flower-unfolding, this - a bomb. Then I make an action happen. Then make an action happen. Then make some action happen. It's a story, see. But I tend to take things all at once lately, and I'm already at the end of this poem when you're still – and always – a world of your own.