Is there a clock here he says to this plate, of antioedipus, and other
dark nightsomes of her past, hugging the nail to his sweating cloak,
harbinger of darkness and hate, not the hefty mall of her palm
held out beneath his feet, his ball bearings chucked on the side of the wood.

Antioedipus sunnies the fate, the fates of whistles and charms.