Jess Grover
Woolf Dub

An economic and cultural leveling process is taking place. It is still a long way to a common life of mankind on earth, but the goal begins to be visible. And it is most concretely visible now in the unprejudiced, precise, interior and exterior representation of the random moment in the lives of different people. So the complicated process of dissolution which led to the fragmentation of the exterior action, to the reflection of consciousness, and to the stratification of time seems to be tending toward a very simple solution. - Erich Auerbach, "The Brown Stocking"

Losing personality, one lost the fret, the hurry, the stir; and there rose to her lips always some exclamation of triumph over life when things came together in this peace, this rest, this eternity; and pausing there she looked out to meet that stroke of the lighthouse, the long steady stroke, the last of the three, which was her stroke, for watching them in this mood always at this hour one could not help attaching oneself to one thing especially of the things one saw; and this thing, the long steady stroke, was her stroke. - Virginia Woolf

Blending incredulities, she mimes an oath, the buttress, a word; and she knew that the fact marking an exultation to misfire nearly caught the sound of reflection on its face, the rest, this eternity; that meaning through one looking out is made by sound and by lighthouse, the dry thickish air, that one sees her through, which was in her, and blocked off the cold gongs frequent in speech and touch of form an alembic pursues the her that renewingly in new names is form; and this thing, that of founding her, there she was.

Faster descriptivenesses, that she is held, one mentions, in hives; and she knew the one that semblance was circumspecting had bridal riders sworn to give its intention by its song, and sweet, this vulgarity; rings settle in the chalky selves she thinks she was not of lighthouse, a small priming note, the strong and last one, rise up to her, and finding in her song still pendant in the blue dull cream of day extruding lustres to where her definitive thoughts might form up from; that she might, she still suffers as, and did rise.

Mutish articulative, one is that she, then happens, is once; as in filth forth furl she posits an ambage that unlocation can render booning horns they find if invention by their song, it's true, but gargantuan; dread bungles or she litters them ways from her own is it lighthouse, and would humming do, the house on in lights, sea as dark there, she plotting the lights and dark merging as if first in pairs they will dismember speakings or had not separated at all at once lush; snort of hue, sound but crabbing from, leave me here.

Tangent teleologies, she skins which sense, and falters, or wept; the next not last is then sudden as burthen she unburthening and tenders vision of clouds by their ascension is it lines, and law, flesh diminishing; flash plangent in the splashy dark slick by its own skill of lighthouse, that the needle whirs, struck there as it cribs, she drew up to, dim hither where come in on ballast the blond gong did speak at her forever seeming it was first pulmonary that is she the breath; blank with it, long the human scree, fell off from.

Mindful iridescently, cups thus thought at, she deeming, and durst; if in twin firm bulk it's rising or thicket her dialectics that soften council to the sung sprig demanding of its truth, or she, heard concomitant; both strikings were of liquid or did scabs move in speech the lighthouse, to the tested dawn, she kept the foam of, and what she heard, wound wordless of the past it captures the mute sign that in the sea refracted foci of song their dissolution thought she knew them by; then more pools, but as water swims, she thought so.

Sourcing radicalities, mist that din hints, or tunnels, she breathes; noise was of a new class bodies in reaching to undercradle her trilling breathless was in that form decisive speech that wounds, or her, fact abundantly; signs sighing of their passage that it should be made blank as lighthouse, in the lesser loss, watch as her thought there, or of which word, sound grabbles up and is few leaning to the new and same sound was advancing manner to a past salutation hails songs where they name; was it lines, and catch at her, brought thus long.

Jess Grover lives in The Rockaways in New York. Recent writing can be found in iO, SCUD, Jacket 2 and The Poetry and Cruelty Hotline.