and

how Giacometti exploded with astonishment
proclaiming

"What destiny. What lines of force!"

To which Sartre replied,

"I was more astonished than he, for I think my face
rather flabby like everyone else's. But the fact is
that he saw every line in it as a centripetal force.
Seen that way, the face turns back on itself like a
loop which closes in on itself...Note how many lines
...are inside the form they describe...they represent
intimate relations of the being with itself. All these
lines are centripetal: their purpose is to tighten,
contract, they force the eye to follow them and always
lead it to the centre of the figure."

"What we call styles"

whispered Giacometti
while his fingers worked the clay
at the speed of thought

"are those visions fixed in time and space."

But Virginia Woolfe quietly entered,
the female frame stepped in
to soak up all that war machine stuff
like a butterfly power vac
turning it insideout of G and S
into the kind of nurturing contiguities
that only mothers and maidens
are hard-wired for
by stating the obvious
'saturate-every-atom' theory

and having reached the sacred source percept
where time braids love
through the eye of a needle,
drips honeyed hydrations that spin spinosa
bloodshot breathless,
shatters by lived perceptions
which have nothing to do with memory,
rides the doubling waves
of tender tidal infinitives
and finally falls back home