Nipson anomemata me monan opsin

Transcription

>> Before I introduce our reader, I'd like to thank the many people that have helped realize these events for our campus and the greater community; the Offices of the Academic Vice President and Intercultural Relations, the Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences, GSBA and the Faculty Speaker Series of Gonzaga have offered generous support for our series this year. We're also grateful to Humanities Washington for, again, recognizing the importance of literary programs like this for the Inland Northwest, and awarding us a grant to help with the series. Linda McDonald of the English Department helps me far and beyond the call of duty. And Gail Lancaster of the campus bookstore does an admirable job subsidizing the series for Gonzaga students, faculty and staff. Katrina's books are less available for purchase this evening. And her newest book, Friendly Fire, a remarkable collection, can be purchased by members of the Gonzaga community for a mere $5. Please support the author and the bookstore by purchasing books after the event. And Katrina will be available to sign books over here to my right at the table near Gail. Please take a moment to help me thank all of these entities and persons. [ Applause ] For those of you who are members of the Gonzaga community, I want to urge you to submit your creative materials to Reflection this year. A deadline is coming up November 24th. They are taking submissions of poetry, short stories, photographs, artwork, collage, music. They have the ambition this year of providing a CD of compositions and musical works with the Creative Journal. And so they're taking submissions of music this year. The next deadline is November 24th. You can find posters and literature online that will tell you where and how to submit materials, but Reflection is a great journal, and this year seems especially exciting. So please take advantage and submit your artistic works. It's easy, I think, to valorize big cities and the easily recognized hubs for their artistic hullabaloo; New York, Chicago, Boston, San Francisco and the Emerald City to our west. Unfortunately, such a fetish ignores that many artists pursue, if not an outright Thurovian [phonetic] fashion, at least in spirit, the sculpting of a life distant from the hubbub and hustle that is the urban, and I use the term figuratively to refer to both city setting and the attendant esthetic context. In the Inland Northwest, the bounty of artists is incredibly rich, from Joseph Goldberg's paintings infused with the subtle power of his desert dwelling, your Soap Lake, to Donovan Johnson's eclectic musical compositions that arise from nowhere less than Metaline Falls. And if you've never even heard of that place or been there, then rent Kevin Costner's The Postman, and you'll see images from Metaline Falls and get a good taste for actually how the town kind of is still today. Fiction greats, Denis Johnson, Jess Walter, Kim Barnes, so many poets, so many other painters, so many fine artists that I'm going to refrain from creating a sprawling catalog to get back to the task at hand. Simply, many have decided to live deliberately in the cultural vacuum that supposedly stretches from North Bend to Missoula. I mention all of this because I see Katrina Roberts' work in relation to such a dynamic. Her talent and training describe the resume of one who could have chosen a life in Ann Arbor or Iowa City, a position at a prestigious MFA program. Instead, she opts to live a little ways in the woods and operate a vineyard with her husband in the hills outside of Walla Walla, where she makes exquisite wine, raises her children, and occasionally pilgrimages into town to teach at Whitman. I'm sure that she thinks I idealize, and she's most likely right. As Chair of the English Department there, she probably lives at Whitman and occasionally pilgrimages home to see her family. But the gist of what I'm saying is true. She is an artist. She could be elsewhere. She has chosen to be nearby. And we are fortunate. Of course, in Washington, near and similar are not always the same. We are blessed with diverse landscapes in our states. And the rich soil of the Blue Mountain Foothills in Roberts' poetry share a vibrant energy. William Carlos Williams, the poet of visceral and life giving energy, frequently uses the word edge and edges in his work when he's writing about encountering a new world naked. Simply, he forges art on the cust [phonetic] shared by matter and spirit, those ideas inherent in the often brutal, sometimes broken, and always beatific things of the world. Roberts' poetry exists near similar edges, and I am not the first reader to notice. About her first book, Jane Hirshfield wrote, Katrina Roberts' richly, wide ranging collection of poems lives at the intersection of precision and song. About her second collection, Joy Harjo wrote, quote, these poems reveal a quick linguistic dexterity as they expose the raw and most sensitive flesh of human earthliness. And that last phrase seems most insightful and important to me, the sensitive flesh of human earthliness, to understand her most recent book, Friendly Fire. The praise for this collection is widespread, a finalist for the Washington State Book Award. Sherman Alexie called it, quote, a gorgeous, amazing book. Billy Collins, Richard Wilbur and many others heaped high praise upon it. I read the book last summer when it first appeared, and I marvelled at the formal control. The collection is a series of quasi sonnets, while responding most immediately to how the poems explore the capacity for violence, our ability to hurt that which we live. It seems to me that poetry, art that examines these grounds in this time of easy discotomies and blame is incredibly important. And that's how I would describe Roberts' poetry, important work, unflinching, as it shows us the sharp edges of our lives. Please help me welcome Katrina Roberts. [ Applause ] >> Katrina Roberts: Oh, thank you. There's water here. Thank you. How it is bright, sea of faces, kind of. You're there. Thank you for that beautiful introduction, Todd. Wow. And thanks to all of you for coming out this evening for poetry. This is wonderful, a wonderful crowd. You have a beautiful campus here in a really remarkable city. So I'm honored to be on your roster of this year's writers. Thanks so much to Todd Marshall [phonetic], to Dan Butterworth. Chris, it's good to see you here in the crowd. And to others whose faces I can't make out, thank you so much for coming. Let's see [inaudible]. I'm going to use this space, so I'm going to put it under. Maybe we'll do a final fling at the end. Okay, let's see. I'm going to start by reading a poem from The Quick. I'll read the first poem from The Quick to begin. This is a poem called Estuary. How it must have been for them, when wind came to strike cottonwoods they called home down, silver bridges across a gun smoke creek bed, joining yellow meadow to meadow. How it must have been like the beginning of time, when the first one beat great wings, though so silent, a field mouse would never even hear before talons sinking in. And rose over the Blues to find this valley with others following. And their human eyes, forward gazing in their round faces. They turned toward sound to catch it in feather discs, their hearing tuned beyond human imagining. And then they were gone, like mist dissipating in the lowlands, and an eye trained toward their going might, squinting, distinguish signs of intention written by pinions, stroking damp air in the westward rowing. And we told ourselves, all water eventually finds the sea, our coming, their going, so synchronous. This was simply something we wanted more than knowing, wholly to believe. It was exciting, this afternoon, to have a chance to spend some time with students, Gonzaga students in a workshop. And I love that poetry matters to you here, and that the students in the audience are writing poetry and wanting something to believe in. And I'm glad that in this time, you know, we do pause to let poetry matter. This is a poem called Self Portrait as Flint, Dust, an Egg Blue Truck, Memory of Arson & Signs. Just wanted to include as many things as I could there in the title. It, too, is about wanting. Water, wanting. There's a lot of water in my work. This one is one of them. Water, wanting. He and I, we were driving two ways. One, back from the town dump. You could have seen us on the highway past Alkali Flats. Touchet, a half mile. Second road's less easy to explain. Hum a tune. Fumes vaporous. Read them; eleven gulls aswirl above CAT dragged dunes. Anyone could have been me. Wrest memory, arrest a thought with blue lights streaming, this land a furrowed brow millennial pitch sinking toward our state's Pen, maximum security. Stretch it out. Let evening's flood give worry a cool rest. Wind chimes. In the road, a deer we swerve to miss. What if they found us like this? Nothing criminal. Lander silt, bleeding rust to hills. Want, like a stiff drink, baby. Pooling, that's lust. Drop in a pebble. Talk is a kind of love we are always making. Cyprus, Manhattan, Walla Walla, many waters. Are we all the same? A three cent washer, his wife's pearl and garnet ring, cat's whisker, this chipped abalone button, wrist watch, all settle, shook flakes in trinket worlds I buy outside Empire State near Golden Gate Bridge, souvenirs of caught days, dredged amo amas amat dazed from time's well. Yeah, yeah, ever the scholar. Shards lodge home in nooks or are obscured swiftly. Morning ablutions, ritual fire in the blood and deeper. What dark things have I done? The animals, vulnerable in charring pelts, bump and nudge as smoke pierces barn slats in a town I once called home. Ash, flinders. Now I mortgage a roof, three sycamores, I calk a tub, align books and blow out candles on another year. Dear, I had not thought it would be this way, anything. What is water that is nothing and everything? Time, enclosing. Children with children. And me? Aquamarine, cobalt, Prussian, ultramarine, periwinkle, teal. I have been wrong about so many things. Sky, wash me in pink. Fill this loss and prepare me. In prison, there is a row where people wait for death. Has any one of us not burned our bridges? Some things, yes, it's true, are unforgiveable. Those blackboard lessons in unison return; nipson anomemata me monan opsin. Wash my transgressions, not only my face. There's a certain rush, twigs, then magnolia blossoms of words, yours, around the nest that is my heart. Yeah, I know. Seat belt, borrowed for hauling. My married neighbor, blue eyes, soot smeared cheek tells me, blow later and it will still come out black. So thick is what we've been through. What's green out here in winter is rye. What would it be like? Drive on. You here, my belly swelling like the Palouse, he and I next week will cross to startle a coyote, silver in afternoon sun, ticked fur gleaming as the pick up slows. If you were here and we had decided to want something, something true, smoldering, clang, clang. Not just once upon a time with sparks, but lasting. They found the guy with the torch was named Flint. Appropriate, huh? Gate falls for the train. Finders keepers, I say, thumbing old dials. We're all equal, record skips, to water. Nine lives or miles, stop, then go, humming along, all equal. I say, want more. Todd mentioned Jane Hirshfield. And I thought given the season that I might read a poem of hers from The October Palace, which is a wonderful collection. And actually, one of the student, Carrie's, poem this afternoon in our workshop put me in mind of this poem, Each Step. It was the poem we looked at in Workshop. The engine of it was that of metaphor simile and a kind of accumulation of metaphors. And this poem uses negation and metaphor to kind of get at its center. Each Step. Nowhere on earth is it not a place where the lovers turn lightly in sleep in each other's arms, the blue pastures of dust flowing gladly into the dawn. Nowhere that is not reached by the scent of good bread through an open window by the flash of fish and the flashing of summer streams or the trees unfolding their praises, apricots, pears, of the winter chill nights. Briefly, briefly we see it and forget, as if the spell were too powerful to hold on the tongue, as if we've preferred the weight to the prize, like a horse that carries on his own back the sack of oats he will need, unsuspecting, looking always ahead over the mountains to where sweet springs lie. He remembers this much from his youth, the taste of things cold and pure, while the water sound sings on and on, unlistened to in his ears, while each step is nothing less than the glistening river body reentering home. This is a teeny poem by Jane, as well. Then I'll stop reading Jane. She'll come and read to you her own poems sometime. She's read here already. You've heard her read. Perhaps you've heard her read those poems. Autumn, very brief. Again, the wind flakes gold leaf from the trees, and the painting darkens, as if a thousand penitence kissed an icon until it thinned back to bear wood without diminishment. There's nothing else to say about Autumn. That's beautiful. Okay, this is a poem from How Late Desire Looks. And it's called Roses Under the Trees. Some things I hide in my heart, only to find, excuse me I'll start that again, Roses Under the Trees. Some things I hide in my heart, only to find offered freely by others with upturned palms. What is it about me? Yesterday I walked through the orchard. The air was heavy with an oily scent of citrus. And every bow bent down under its yellow weight. Such bounty and thick fragrance. I wanted to cry out loud. I'm not sorry exactly. I could go back there, though many of the salmon petals would have let go by now in the night's rain, what I learned from them. Under the trees, I could lie and breathe deeply. I could see the thousand colors which ask nothing of me, as nothing more than shapes of color. I could give myself to them. I could comb the green grasses with my opened fingers. What there would be of sky would be lilac and warm or gray like my eyes, though mostly the sleeves would obscure it as my heart sometimes hides what is most dear to me. At least now I know to look in every drop which clings to each blade and thorny stem or bitter lemon to see reflected there entire worlds of possibility. Wisps of cloud caught in outstretched branches, globes of ripened fruit, blown roses, and all composing an easy pattern I must learn to open into. This is a poem that I wrote just my grandfather, who was a very stoic man who lived in the New Hampshire mountains, very granite personality there in the foot of Monadnock. And he's a man that I didn't know as well as I would have liked to before he got Parkinson's and kind of closed down. And this is a poem that I wrote when he was just before death. And it's called Always the Space Between. And then the title becomes the first line. Oh is the space between the scales of pale light and the threat of breath exhaled, perhaps the coming unstitched last wish from the dying heart, the lying dying, its subtle ritual intinction, a slipping of mind into brightness seeped upward. Oh is the space not left between the wisdom of something instinctual and solid. For example, the sudden looming of shoulders, and then the darker shadow of something just behind the shoulders makes a question out of the weight of light just above them and everything else. The gradation is only visible, and the long running stitch of light meaning door, and the go on, touch it, sip it, put your lips against this last hand's glass, there where the lips touch glass, touch water, touch air, there along the seams when a dazzling innocent stream's milky blue from the eye not extinguished and the mind surmounting through space. What is the weight of the space again, again? Has not yet let go and still rushes its how many hands in to ease the ideas, fish, starting copper for the eyes, streaming like fracting, refracting light slicing the dying room in two pieces, each flooded, flooding the ears, eyes, nose, mouth. Please stay. Please, where are you now and always with sound? I'll read the opening poem from Friendly Fire. It's called Blue. It was fun writing a book of sonnets. I couldn't imagine doing it years ago. When I was in grad school, actually, Rick Kenney came to Iowa for a term. And he asked us to write sonnets. And I thought, man, I mean, Rick Kenney thinks in sonnets. It's amazing. And I remember writing something that felt very artificial. It was artifice. It was sonnet imposed on poem. And just feeling like, wow, that's just not a form I can ever imagine inhabiting. And then I wrote The Quick, which was a book very much about the sort of creative process. And at the time, I happened to be pregnant, too, so that was all that whole big creative act was happening simultaneously. And everything in The Quick is very expansive. And I finished it, and then there it was, and I started writing poems. And I realized, oh, a couple of months in, that, in fact, everything I was writing was sonnet length. And Todd mentioned that these are quasi sonnets. I mean, I think of them as kind of loose American sonnets. Some of them are actually quite tight sonnets, metrically speaking, and some are not. But I became, at a certain point in the project, became very interested in the little perfect argument that a sonnet can be, and in the sort of implicit statement that's made simply by form. And it was really remarkable to realize, for me, one day, that I was inhabiting this form that I had once deemed entirely impossible to imagine being, you know, content in. And it seemed like a really great metaphor for what living really is, and certainly for what being a parent is, because suddenly you wake up and you realize, man, I'm still a child, but who are these three mouths needing feeding? In any event, this is called Blue. I stand there under the high limbs of a locust watching my father point a black gun into the air, his arms steepled for the stillness required to split the proverbial hair with a BB. I would like to throw a red hat to catch what will smack from the barrel. But instead, the songbird drops fast, a warm stone through liquid swimming between us. The stink of yellow sulfur thick and the twist of his mouth like tangled purple bows or crossed legs of what he never dreamed he'd hit. Years after, I will admit only to so much. Blue moon tomorrow, do we ever get a second chance? It's what I don't say that speaks loudest. He did actually shoot a songbird, my father. I think he's probably, I mean, when he first he's never said anything about that poem. He did read it quietly. This poem is called Origins. All day, a small white hand opening toward windows, the orchid's second bloom. Pinpoint of blood intaglio where petals meet, the sexual folds, layers of pale flesh that waft the taste of scent, sweet breath of a babe in arms, his mouth's milk, a spitalace [phonetic] of shine, dried, unflushed cheeks. February, his third month, no cause for expiation of any sort, though blossom talk calls into question any reason for being as one is. Not gaudy, exactly. More blown fully, teasing, though cloistered on the sill. Beyond pains, beside lanceted doors of our church of assumption, two boys aim guns and laugh. I became really fascinated by how well, the image in this poem of the boys, these two boys, continually shooting each other and falling down dead and then getting back up and then shooting each other and falling down dead on the church steps across from my not yet then husband's house in Walla Walla so emblazoned itself in my brainpan, it would not leave. And I thought about that. And this image, this moment happened at a moment in time when, you know, we were hearing sort of daily about friendly fire deaths elsewhere. And I remember just knowing that I would be working with that sort of idea about violence. I mean, how it's just so sort of prevalent and innocent often. And so that became the kind of center of this book or motivator of this book. But it was really kind of all around. And I'm not reading sonnets right now. I'll read some of my new work in a moment. But I just, one after another, these poems that had this intense kind of questioning came to me. And odd events, it was a very odd sort of year. One of the things that happened was that three of my husband's childhood friends, with whom he had grown up in Walla Walla, killed themselves at different times, entirely different, you know, unrelated instances, all from the same kindergarten class. And in any event, it was a very strange year. And so this poem is called Suicide. And the he in it is my husband, Jeremy. What the wind carries with it, not promise nor answer, but only the breath of something other. They'd been boys together, then lost touch. How did that happen? Just life stuff, I guess, not much more. Rather, what keeps anyone joined? What with all these different states of mind beyond geography sigh? We care most about ourselves. Because he was angry, he doused the falling limbs and struck a match. I watched it flare, and hands clicked steadily by the hour of his buddy's service. Honor, what is it? I thought about a mother and a father, how surely they gazed in wonder at his birth. All day, tears ran with sweat for what it's worth. That was just so I was very moved by that. My husband is a man of kind of few words. And he just went out and built the hugest bonfire he could and let it stream, and then came in, and he was okay with it. Zinnias. Garish, but beloved, magenta red peach, each blossomed the size of a small boy's hand outstretched. Please, give me strength. How ragged I grow in my day long tread of tasks. How I forget to show my sons a face as open and bright as they deserve to see. Even cut, you last on your water skewed stems within a green glass globe for days, tempting the world to gaze. Shake me from my haze. Bring me to my senses. Besides fatigue, I have no reason to complain compared to most others. Our lone sun shines upon without our even asking. That I can walk from this table, that each evening a man turns in the dark, asking, where are you? That I am able to hold and be held no matter why. I'm interested in poems that walk that fine line. Todd mentioned edges. And I'm interested in a line that is probably not very popular in contemporary American poetry. That line that walks right next to sentimentality. I think it's a really interesting and probably really self destructive place, if you want to go someplace with poetry. But I'm interested in that. This poem is called Iris. And, well, I'll just read it. April again. And someone is saying, he doesn't care for the fat bronze irises by the spicket. It's their honey red luster this late afternoon, their swayed interiors, gloves turned inside out that draws me as cool gusts rustle coins in the cottonwoods, even those splintered in last month's storm stand now scribbled the green of every new thing. Funny how envy shares this hue, meaning to me only purity. How can one not love these warm petals, an intricate currency of a country not one's own, dagger leaves and straight stalks hoisting them aloft to bounce as bees take flight? Today, when an old friend finally returned from the sealed room where she wintered over, leukemia spending her body, her shorn hair gleamed this same copper and was lovely. Maybe I'll read a couple of new poems. Are we doing okay time wise? >> Okay. >> Okay. So this new book that I've been writing is called Underdog, like Underdog, Underdog. Where are you, Underdog, when I need you? And oddly enough, I've been writing poems about [inaudible] that have emerged out of my strange obsession with artifacts from Wales. I have Welsh heritage, but I'm obsessed with these objects, as well as issues of immigration here in the northwest. And at one point in Walla Walla, there was a very large Chinese population in a very vibrant community. And I've been very fascinated by I mean, thinking about the streets that we walk as sort of [inaudible] of experience and the layers and layers of experience that happen in a single place. So I'll read this poem. It's called Echoic. What matters in the dark matters intensely. Mind moves, chainsaw, ready to be used if wind keeps up. Before I bore small versions of self, before I found I had become the end of a silk road trodden by pilgrims, debate raged over tectonics of skull, head molding to fit, a rushing luge through winter's slick canal of bone, pelvic, and this one not [inaudible] portals, but meat and blood and a voice from somewhere coming to greet the haloing swarm. What they hung fleet and sycamore limbs were does, still warm and pierced, arrows and bows. They scraped blades over flesh, released fat from gristle, sinu from muscle. What matters in tense moments like this is sound, an ambulance whaling, white hyphens leading down and away, a friend's mother strapped to a stretcher, taken from white sheets blood soaked beneath her, through suburban streets, all hush and secrecy, while her children wait, daring only to part curtains slightly. Oh, torn purse into which, out of which butter soft. Oh, dreams and delights of cartographers when the new world was something to write home about, before we were denisons [phonetic] of this land, before marriage and birth, before sunrises display itself across faces, while green ice ticks on the lake and saws growl into action around necks, they pull their collars tight. Let's see, I was looking for this poem is called Cartography, speaking of mapping. And it's in memory of my friend, Jack Marshall, who died this past year. He died this year, 2009. And, anyway, this is for Jack Marshall. The body was one thing we always had in common, even when between us a continent unfolded. Eric says, we scattered his ashes beneath the Japanese Maple here behind the house. No ceremony, as you wished, but this. What you wanted from me was complex and simple, both. Once you asked for more than I had to give. I live with this. Call it regret. Your hands bloom in the intaglio sprawl, creased onion skin tattooed with garnet stamps from [inaudible], a sifting of marble dust. Images, chiselled jet of jaw, cheek, bridge of nose, recall each granite face rising from New Hampshire dirt upon which, faltering, he last stepped. In 1792, long before either of us came to be, Rainer [phonetic] Autins [phonetic] dragged his fine tip across a smooth sheet [speaking foreign language]. Bright beings; lobster, serpent, bison, dove, bearing the requisite sprig, swirl and writhe over lines that pin distance and story to time. Spectral creatures that we are, connecting dots to chart our ways. If only I could wrap the whole plane back into its ball. Without your body in it, this world's gone flat. So here's one that's quite Welsh, Whisky. The last surviving specimen, his name is Whisky, actually, Whisky. The last surviving specimen of a turn spit dog, all be it taxidermied, remains in the Abergavenny Museum, Wales, as evidence of a common mid 19th century breed that died out with the advent of mechanization in the kitchen. Size of a small bread box excuse me size of this small bread box, rusty as a fox. With a heart shaped snout, his eyes, black marbles now, though once the mirrors a man could peer into to find out his own worth. Imagine scorching heat, how tantalizing the waft and crackle of browning meat, oozing juices, to be caged within a small wheel attached to the spit, fire so near and made to run, saving the cook in a large household, hours of effort in cranking by hand your fate. Whisky ran and ran. Such a tiny thing. So they all ate and ate. Some dogs were paired with a mate, and they'd trade off, every dog his day, panting, limp. Such devotion to a master, to be so close to that which nourishes, and yet for your portion later to be only scraps. Rumor has it that more than once, a man carried a turnspit tyke to church some mid winter morning to warm his feet. Such humble servitude, wagging. Let me learn from that something of grace. [ Silence ] This let's see. Sorry, I'm a little disorganized here. That's no good. This is a poem called Secrets of the Valley. It's in two parts. It's not very long. Secrets of the Valley. One, I could do it again if I had to, pinning his arms to my chest, though yelping sinks into plush. Two fat carps circle trailed by a Curly Q'd plume of excrement. That tree filled with magenta tulle or smokey cotton, prone to it, damp at all margins, my younger boy barking at midnight. Who knew pale rose stuck bound by ivy? Could we have one of those smallish babies? How vast his acceptance wrenching, and how sticky round each wrist we get, candy bracelet charmed with a pink heart, an entire city built beneath feet, fault always somebody else's, suckled on. Two, don't go back for the camera. Just raise your hands like this and make that sound. Pale yellows, blues, sweet on the barbed tongue, 15 stars hiding in bows. Nothing good comes of the poison fighting. Where he traveled from to bring us such luminous notions confounds. He jumps into shallow water, far too precious for me. Maybe I'll finish with this poem. I live just south of town in Walla Walla. And when I first moved to this little farm, it was in a pretty remote area. Actually, the town has crapped out toward out now. And what were fields, just big wide open fields of wheat, many of them have lots and lots of houses on them now. It's a very different feeling. And there are lots of agricultural labor to be done in town. And some of it has to do with grapes. But it's been there for many years before the sort of grapes happened. And so there are farm labor camps in one particular part of town. And I'm fascinated by the communities within communities that one experiences. I imagine you know, you have similar communities within your own communities here. This poem is called The Farm Labor Camp is Just Down the Road. And I wanted to thank Todd and others for bringing me here. I'll read this and then I'm happy to sign books or whatever. The Farm Labor Camp is Just Down the Road. Not coop, so much as aviary. The way everyone thinks the youngest two are twins, despite their differences. This memory of a blue dress, the tall man called a cool drink of water. A carpet burning the skin right off my back. What I needed to say versus what I was able. The way you can't see an image in sunlight unless it's matte. Could you drink pee if there were nothing else? The oldest constructs a world to inhabit if he had to. He has to. Immaculate as snow, a season away. I wasn't honest, so it haunts me. Thank you very much. [ Applause ]