This is a vanished book, in that the book itself remains outside of the pages that the pulp and the pith of it, one would hope, might in some way or measure, physically retain--and in kinship with the star of which its pages sing, with least as much veracity. A book that appears more within the eyes of the one reading than before the face of that one, it also stands apart from itself in a modified representation of its untampered form. This book is haiku in jazz form, free and intuitive in the call, the uptake, and the response. It does not claim to represent either its subject or object, and simply passes off fragments of itself, vainly, so that the recipients of the remnants of that book that it were or would be, might conjure, or otherwise intone the place within their own meaning and meaningfulness, in which the book truly occurs, and is happening. The experience in which the writers of this repertoire of haiku, tanka, and renga have dissolved may have been the very thing they had talked about.