somewhere, in the heaven of a heaven and typing; the completed works of robert browning am I and this sight; 'a man in a labyrinth -- of walls, pale green on a dominant grey'. The sleight wind shaken clean of its grits, having shaped the stone walls, has died and, should the flat door of the skies come down to rest on these walls it would seal like the lid on a jam jar. The man in the labyrinth weighs poles in half steps north or south, he flusters like a flare, on a busy ocean of angles. 'The rook does not flinch from its grip on the sycamore stripped, of leaves and flanked by two blades of the sun.' says the god of all rooks, sat at a table playing chess with the god of all men. in moves they argue a thousand paths.