Pinprick, deer tick, Blueberry Lake

Reading I Is To Vorticism is like opening the door and finding a dozen seal pups limned in foxfire. "I'm Ben Mirov," they belch, before melting into snakes, then scarves, then little phosphorescent puddles. The puddles hiccup into crows, burst into night. A girl appears with horsemint, currants, and a garibaldi in a mason jar. "Drink," she says. You do. Night crumbles down to crows, and the crows collapse into puddles. In your right hand is an eyeball. In your left hand is a snowstorm. The eyeball is staring at you. "I'm Ben Mirov," it barks.