Cut Off Places

5 1 cut off places

r e g a n g o o d 52

the birds

There were deep hollows, leaves. The elements of air, water, earth, fire
ornamenting the sticks, the stems extending matter out. Now it is an electric
chair, a stripped foliate with wind scrolling through it, banners of air, birds
moving ( threading, zeroing deftly ) inside the tree shape. The birds tighten a
wire. Here to there, a lattice of tripped mines: arrivals, departures. A diagram:
Recall the fruit that hung. Recall the blight. Recall the leaf. These birds are
scavengers. They dictate the inner sanctum. They say: Now we are the fruit,
we are the lifeblood, we are meat-eaters. Clocking mechanisms rotate in our
cores. We siphon the tree for our devices, it is our backdrop, it is expendable.
We revolve inside the stricken shape, memento mori made of living tissue,
delineating passage through bare branches. If you eat us, we will taste poisonous.
If you touch us, we will draw blood. Snap the wire: We have sewn the remnants
upright into a semblance of a tree, detonating extinction.

5 3 cut off places

the book of nature

Look, here there is room: rock, air, fire, water. They have given up calling. They
have given up their differences. Birds choir the trees in this boneyard. The
crows come and go as if the air were leisure—free of grooves, free of routes.
The birds fly a cat’s cradle of strings, webbing the element that is air ( that is
breath, that is a conflagration of Souls ), revolving and revolving, turning the
pages like a madman believing he is a book, furthering the elements (rock, fire),
carefully turning the pages ( water, air ), turning night into day. Onslaught of
days made of arrivals, departures. The elements shiftless as belief, turning into
the next day and the next. The night giving back its differences (rock, air, fire,
water) until they are all a backdrop of a single kind for the one hand the mind
knows the mind is.

r e g a n g o o d 54

the masks

Masks hang from trees latched by wires. The branches are scarred with crosses.
Birds defecate a black, uninhabitable reef. The masks rotate on their strings,
twisting, lying, masquerading as fruit. They hang nationless, godless. They
were the voice box, the mouthpiece, the vehicle for the swift intelligence to
whine through: iron lung, Holy Sonnet 14, a loudspeaker rigged to a balcony.
The wind ( with its tongue cut out ) lifts the masks slowly, insistently, stuttering
through the eye-holes, the mouth-hole. I see God in the making, the wind
casting votes. There is nowhere to go, but to the physical evidence moving
there, arguing Classical Truths. Does something speak in the crease where
the mask eats the face? Here is the lie. They are not Souls—their wires snap
undone. They are not Souls infesting these earthly branches. But O if the wind
could be something other than wind, whispers some inalienable right…

5 5 cut off places

the ruin theory of value

Watch the hand control the end. ( The architect Speer built the fault lines to
comply. ) Hubris bends the natural law. ( Christ and his end ). These birds flying
with thorned sticks build their nests in the dying trees. Outside the house, the
trees are truly possessed by wind, by fire. The Poem ( the opposite of Ruin )
coheres inside the house. I watch two trees stirred from their centers turn
every inch of surface into scorched earth: Let no stone go unturned, leave
nothing standing. Recall the plans for the buildings, the outlines, the dotted
lines delineating the massive stone steps, what the eye could see, and what
was invisible to the eye ( a human hair woven into the bird’s nest ), a striation
of human smell throughout that kingdom. What was invisible ( the wind
itself ringing around each outcrop of branches, leaves, the wind noosing and
noosing ) taking every last appendage down the stick.

r e g a n g o o d 56

song

A hummingbird burns its body-fat carving a rut in air. A hummingbird with a
blood disease ghosts the flower head. I sit. I watch. It does no good. Trees catch
a headful of wind and are swept to sea. From here the tin-seam roofs suck the
sun home. No way out from the direct fire. Attain unto it. The On High burns
brightly: mine downsitting and mine uprising. If I ascend to Heaven: Thou
art there. If I make my bed in Hell: Thou art there. The birds do not drag an
evening curtain down. They clatter inhuman sounds.

The hummingbird snags in the thorn bush. Panic drives the thorn points
deeper in. Its neck goes limp. Its needle beak splits. Its eyes turn to milk. That
bird drove rhapsodic through the clarity of the branches until it drowned in its
own small reserves of lungwater.

monument of mind and matter

Leaves, seeds—the pavement studded with remnants, finery, details. ( Birds
coalesce swiftly into the branches from the living ground. ) The birds are
ornaments. They are sycophants. The tree is their idol. They cluster, teeming
inside the sacrosanct tree shape. They are all instinct tracing the barren rooms,
alighting on junctures, abandoning them for the higher atmosphere where
the wind has blown itself visible. ( The birds inside scroll cyclic through this
stronghold, turning revolutions. )

They sing songs of their devotion to the control box. They sing: We are jewels.
We are idea. We are more than mind and matter. The air is cruel between us.
We hover, a pestilence, supplicants to this division.

5 7 cut off places

birds ate the song and broke the light

Wild imaginings of clipped, winged things. Lord, a red cardinal. Look, Lord,
your red bird. (Sparks burst from God´s jagged cuts: bright droplets of liquid
love.) You reveal my mortal ignorance. In snow, a cardinal lands on a red twig,
stuck through the bones with hunger. Mortal shock of the cardinal bright as
blood in the ghosting snow—Souls’s bloody, rhetorical knot. I said: Dear heart.
And so it flew.

Hung a seeded bell, watched them eat it down to nothing but its net. Birds
ate the bell so darkness & wind passed through and emptied it. Birds ate the
song and broke the bell. Birds ate the bell seed by seed, then flew upwards and
away—Whosoever knows a common bird? These squeak and eat and still the
waters rage: Around them the same “integrated atmospheres” in which hangs
the net their hunger made.

l i s a m . r o b i n s o n 58

5 9 cut off places

l i s a m . r o b i n s o n 60

6 1 cut off places

l i s a m . r o b i n s o n 62

6 3 cut off places

m o n a h ø v r i n g 64

the girl from the mussel restaurant

We are attractively wretched, you and I,
as thirteen-year-old girls when we wake up.

Late in the day we sound out the bare rocks,
slip on the kelp, sit on the salt-white surface,
and cling onto what could be called our house.

If we were stinging jellyfish we would
possibly have a greater understanding of water.

And we think of the same thing, you and I,
in cheerful disgust, in sucking shame –
seductive and aromatic,
leaning against a pinball machine.

6 5 cut off places

on dreaming biographically

I have lived many lives: When I was young the sultans loved
me for my fertility, and because I only played with women
when I bathed. When I was old I ate sweets and smoked
opium, I was fat and lopsided and had bad teeth. Once I was
executed because I fell in love with an eunuch who tasted like
aubergines. It often happened that the young boys and I were
poisoned out of jealousy. I have given queens acupuncture, I
was the emperor’s chef and had my head cut off because the
swallow’s egg soup did not increase his potency. When I died
I became a bird that got drunk on fermented berries and fruit,
I flew until I met glass, after which I sat with my legs crossed.

m o n a h ø v r i n g 66

the transparent girls

We lived on a ship for several years, we chased the dust from
the sea’s surface, we did not know how deeply anchored in
life we were, we latched onto everything that convincingly
resembled festivities: The strenuous hormones, all the
burdens our small bodies could bear. Simplicity lay in a laced-
up darkness where we spoke ungovernably. Were we playing
the game, perhaps? We eagerly planned to acquire roots and
substance. But time surfaced like dry husks, and heralded a
delayed departure. We did not travel, except from when we
travelled. On the tickets: our fingerprints.

6 7 cut off places

happy seasons

The first time Darwin visited the Galapagos Islands, the
birds were easily visible, their feathers were covered with
thistledown seeds, and above the surface of the waves the
air was full of creatures that invited him out of his own time.
For millions of years the lizards had chased the breakers, the
tortoises had moved position, and in the growing darkness the
insects changed biography. In Polynesia Darwin wed a small
female willow warbler with pale legs. They read aloud for
the algae that took lodging in them, and in friendly moments
they borrowed each others colours. They rose in the light at
ebb-tide, and sank in the sand when the tide came in. Thus
everything they understood was sent back and forth in every
single cell.

m o n a h ø v r i n g 68

symptoms the black keys

A propensity for the ascetic – that I never got to I had lost something up on the mountain. Let’s go down to
intoxicate myself with nature. the sea, you said, let’s consume pickled plums, they protect
against all dangers, and when you feel downhearted you must
remember to look at the outside of yourself, and should you
die, you will never have to die again, then you can sit in front
of my house.

And I sat in front of your house, I dreamt that I was a child, it
was like a punishment, I heard animals cough in the fog, and
you looked like the small shepherd boy.

6 9 cut off places

the little church down by the sea the nymphs went their way

Remember how we wasted water, girl? The girls that returned as flowers
We were careful, our hearts gently rippled woke up numb and thirsty in the forest,
when we imitated goddesses, the clouds melted, they made for the light, and light produced heat
the months ran out of the calendar, without demanding payment,
all was mobile and wet. light dwelt in the bulbs, the lumps of earth, the seeds,
What were those day reminiscent of ? in the peace, and peace dwelt in the mountains,
The nervous corals? That in us which breaks down? peace was vain, it had no enemies.
Remember when we knew the names of all the waves And the girls swelled by the river, grew frivolous,
and everything blissful? all day long they hankered for apples,
We were in the process of growing up, little girl, apples that were the basis of all sin,
we asked for protection for our mothers, but there was no sin, sin had been abolished,
and for common sense. it was mythical like the obstinate sheep.
And later, when we got lost,
it was out of pure obligation.

c h a n g e r 70

7 1 cut off places

c h a n g e r 72

7 3 cut off places

c h a n g e r 74

7 5 cut off places

s t u a r t k r i m k o 76

common space vegetation is despair

What happened to the house This globe is like a skull that sprouts
that used to stand here? pines and palms instead of doubts
I don’t know, maybe it
blew away. when the sphere has nightmare dreams
It didn’t blow away, it gushes forth with jungle steams
they knocked it down.
Who’s they? enough of these and its orbit hangs
with trailing green like ferns for pangs
The wrecking ball
broke through satellites show much blue on Earth
the back wall but blue is not just seas but mirth
first, then the sides
and finally the world I know is green all over
the front wall menacing moss and threatening clover
was broken.
oceans seethe with bubbling algae
What happened to the house and blue as the sky is a broken analogy
that used to stand here?
I don’t know, maybe they
knocked it down.
They didn’t knock it down,
it blew away.
How strong was the wind that day?

Clouds gathered,
gusts mounted,
the roof went first
and then the walls.
All the furniture
and personal belongings
were borne aloft.

7 7 cut off places

whan mine eyen mistëth

When my eyes shed tears,
and my ears only rumors hear,
and my nose runs snot clear,
and my tongue folds like an ear,
and my skin becomes too sheer,
and my lips are two lines mere,
and my jaw to my neck coheres,
and the drool drips by drops a-drear,
and my hair stands up in fear,
and my heart races like a charioteer,
and my hands clap but not in cheer ,
and my feet their walking jeer––
all for naught, all for naught,
when the coffin has been bought.
Then I must pass from bed to breath,
from breath to breeze,
from breeze to branch,
from branch to noose,
and then must let my soul go loose.
Over my body worms shall crawl,
and that will be the end of it all.

s t u a r t k r i m k o 78

covenant a kind mind

In my room when young a weaving hung A kind mind is all you
of Noah, the ark, and the animals, need to succeed. What
and over them the symbol of am I saying? It’s all I
the covenant simplified to a few broad need, and I want to take
bands. This made me a believer in a ruler responsibility for what
who relies on colors to hold up the sky. I want, what I need.
Next week I might not even be
It’s custom to pray upon sight of them, alive. So what?
put all aside to watch and marvel as mist The wind passes too.
parts and affirmations come into view.
But the voice that begs to praise them, A kind mind can help me sing.
to what is it beholden? When I’m in a chorus I see the
Just senses, a sense of in- group, like forests before a
side and outside conflating to tree, and not myself, but swaying
publish a book about the beyond? with them, my robe swishing,
is not a problem. When it comes
Once after a Sunday rain I rushed to apparel I’m part of it.
to the top of the rise, where the road
curved, to feel the swath of colors This kind mind, with all its
caress my inner eye, and composed a happy coincidences and cold
letter there: Dear Arc, I too come in multiple hard truths, shouldn’t it take
colors – but how to sign such missives, its time when it walks to the store?
their market value nil when night comes, No, it knows what it wants,
their sentiments seen as suspect by stars why should it dilly-dally? There’s
that shine no matter how long ago rain fell? no joy in the journey, it’s all
When the colors disappear dispersed in the achievement, the bird
by sun, by wind, or by nightfall, in the hand, the bush ripped from
does nothing remain of their the soil, the silver forest
mute fireworks but prophecy? that lights the way to gold.

You don’t expect them to emerge Dear kind mind, how I
again but they bloom to herald hold you in high esteem! How I
the onset of an uncommon season want to wear you with the
that lasts no longer than minutes emblematic fury of a crown.
at odd times, after tornadoes or I’m not kidding. I don’t know
when storms stop, as compensation how to laugh and maybe you
for chaos, revealing sinews of the spectrum, can teach me. It’s possible, isn’t
proving light a festive construct and it, kind mind? Someone taught
delighting the looking eye, which beats you how to do it and you can
the colors thin as it ushers them in. turn around and teach me, can’t you?

7 9 cut off places

the only movie i’ve ever seen is rashomon the palm

This truth has toes, How about this royal palm
has fingers, and I have that stands above me cool and calm
fought to keep them clean.
At every step this truth even when the sun beats down
threatens to dirty its the palm won’t bend into a frown
toes and its fingers,
and so I go armed its fronds are highlights of my day
with brush, bucket of water like someone with kind things to say
and soap.
like green and shallow blades of dew
When we get to the temple steps they make my heart feel wet and new
I make sure this truth is
especially clean. my heart beats like a summer storm
I even look in its mouth, beats against the screens all torn
to make sure its teeth are clean
and that its breath smells good. it’s like a hurricane in training
Then we go, this truth and I, especially when my soul is braining
hand-in-hand up the steps
of the temple, into the temple hard against my lumpy skull
and marvel at the gilded walls, from my lungs my limbs they pull
the midnight dome,
the altar, swimming in incense. somewhere in another life
this palm dismantles every strife
Together this truth and I pray,
I for its cleanliness and purity, winds send them back to dismantled me
and it for whatever truth prays whose parts are stacked against a tree
for: sweet dreams, tons of money,
and bones to which it might attach and if that tree is in fact this palm
its muscle. singing me its living psalm

then misfortunate and delight
share this horticultural plight

even apart from woes and smiles
the palm tree’s core is like a child’s

waiting for an upward chance
to grow beyond its parents’ rants

to touch the brackish point of sky
where outer space is a little shy

and thereby lets the blue of earth
overcome the black of dearth

encircling planets far and wide
as in their orbits they do glide

e l i o t l e e h a z e l 80

8 1 cut off places

e l i o t l e e h a z e l 82

8 3 cut off places

e l i o t l e e h a z e l 84

8 5 cut off places

e l i o t l e e h a z e l 86

8 7 cut off places

a lta i f l a n d 88

the children’s theater

In the Town-Where-Nothing-Ever-Happens schoolteachers take the children
on weekends to the Children’s Theater for plays, movies, musicals and other
shows. During holidays, the Children’s Theater shows movies made for
children only, and dozens of children from all over the town are crammed
into the suffocating hall, waiting for the doors to open, the older and stronger
ones—mostly boys—pushing their way ahead through the crowd with their
elbows and kicks to the joints of the younger kids. When the doors open,
the mass of children in the hall, a huge mollusk made of dozens of bodies
glued together, moves forward with a new surge of energy, breaking through
the glass doors and leaving behind pieces of chewed caramel, handkerchiefs,
multicolored wrapping foil, spit and blood. Then the theater staff collects the
dead bodies of the little children crushed by the older and stronger ones.

Finally, the survivors are in, on the cozy chairs of blue plush—though some
chairs are plastic and others, vandalized, show their innards made of some
creamy, foamy matter. The lights are out and the show kicks off. A man appears
on the stage and begins to sing a hit pop song, while colored lights twinkle here
and there, and white steam is released for special effects. The children grow
increasingly excited. The steam, particularly, seems to please them. They eat
popcorn, sunflower and pumpkin seeds, whose shells they spit on the floor.
One kid throws a candy at the singer, but misses him. Inspired, another one
throws his notebook on stage, still missing the singer, who appears more and
more nervous. Soon, all the children are throwing things—candies, crumpled
paper, paper airplanes, eggs, pebbles. A more creative boy unzips his pants and
directs a perfect semicircle of yellow pee toward the same target, but can only
reach the kids several rows down, who in turn, unzip their pants, thus creating
a domino effect that plunges a whole area of the theater into wet chaos. On
stage, the singer is covered in a gooey film, a paper plane on his head, but keeps
singing. The children’s excitement has reached paroxysm—they tap their feet,
yelling and laughing hysterically. When the show is over, the staff comes to pick
up the singer’s body from under the heap amassed on stage, while the children
trickle out, humming the tune they have just learned, happy, innocent.

8 9 cut off places

wedding in the balkans

There, weddings are made of different time-stuff. They begin with a contest:
first, the two mothers-in-law spit out all the curses they’ve accumulated in a
lifetime, from “May you burn in Hell with all your family and the children of
your children,” to “May your mouth go dry and your tongue go rotten,” the
latter, the worst of all, for how is one to curse with a dry mouth and a rotten
tongue? For hours they spit out their venom, exorcising all the demons, until
the two families are purified and their children can unite.

But this time, the bride’s mother said something different, something no
one expected. “May you never forget,” she said, and then the other woman
stopped, with the curse stuck on her lips, unable to let it go.

Later in the day, the procession left the bride’s house, she in her long, white
gown, and the female guests in their colorful dresses, with the paid jester telling
one obscene joke after another, thus working up the crowd before they would
arrive at the groom’s house where the couple was to be locked up in the bridal
chamber while the crowd waited by the door and eventually exploded in cheers,
as the groom emerged holding up like a flag the white bloodstained sheet.

But this time, the procession left with the bride while the groom waited with
his own folk, and waited and waited, and the bride never arrived. Snowflakes
big as daisies had begun to fall on the bride’s procession—though it was
summer—and an icy wind started to blow, carrying away the women’s straw
hats, pulling up their skirts and unveiling their legs, and they walked like this for
hours without getting anywhere, and then for days, and their hair grew white
with icicles and their feet stumbled in the snow that was now up to their knees,
and they walked for weeks and for months, until they could move no longer.

And the groom waited a whole year until someone brought the news that
a group of cheerful wedding guests had been spotted in the mountains, time-
frozen into statues of snow, and one could still see the crystal glasses in their
hands with the frozen red wine, and the frozen smiles on their faces, and the
bride’s gown barely distinguishable on the white background. And the groom
ordered a painting to be made after the frozen tableau mort from what had
once been nature vivante, and he never forgot.

a lta i f l a n d 90

ashes and cinnamon

The Sunday strolls on the Corso—the main downtown street
where the traffic stopped on weekends—smelled of vanilla
and tasted like ice cream. The city’s “working class”—as they
said on TV and in the papers—was out in its Sunday best,
the men in their suits, the women in their colorful dresses.
Vendors on the sidewalk sold ice-cream cones and cotton
candy, which we called “sugar-on-a-stick,” and the little girl
watched in fascination as the latter unfolded its ghostly body
of gauze. Her favorite ice cream was “chocolate ice-cream-
on-a-stick,” a kind she’s never seen since, with the mass of
ice cream like a reed’s brown, elongated top. Ice cream was
a Sunday ritual, as she was usually not to have any: a fragile
child prone to frequent colds.

And then there were the vendors that appeared years
later with their hot dogs, which everyone called “dicks-in-a-
bun” because the bun was scooped out and the hot-dog was
stuck inside upwards like a virile member with mustard all
around. But that was later, and by then the ice-cream-on-
a-stick and the sugar-on-a-stick had disappeared, as did the
smell of vanilla and the Sunday suits. And now the Corso is
made of layers of disintegrated bubbles of time, a layer of
cinnamon and one of ashes, with the ashes gradually covering
everything, and the cinnamon retreating in memory’s cellars
for future excavations.

9 1 cut off places

the chimney sweeper why they call it the old world

Even after he disappeared, swallowed by the mythology It is not for nothing that they call it the Old World. In her
of the past, his name and image remained in songs and in grandparents’ village things are the way they were hundreds
those pins with white and red thread we used to put on our of years ago. Some Western journalists say that many
chest to welcome spring. Those tiny brooches in metal or people regret communism, but they understand nothing.
plastic called martzisoare—that is, “little marches,” named What people regret is not communism, but the past. In that
for March—represented flowers, little hearts, birds, usually part of the world the past is always better. For scarves, they
a symbol of something, in the same way the little marches wrap around their necks streams of blood passed on from
themselves stood for spring. A symbol of a symbol. The generation to generation, and they lament the old days. So
white thread stood for winter and the red one for summer. much so that when the villagers in her grandparents’ village
The fruit of their fight was spring. The chimney sweeper was had to elect their mayor, the majority re-elected the old
one of the most popular little marches, for it too stood for mayor in spite of an insurmountable handicap: the man was
something: luck. Its blackness was turned into its opposite, no longer of this world. In an interview, a villager explained,
white—luck. Excrements were also a sign of luck. On the “I know he’s dead, but I don’t want any change.”
other hand, running into a priest was like running into the
devil or a black cat. One had to cross oneself, spit and take
three steps back. One also had to spit three times on a baby
whose cuteness triggered admiration, in order to chase away
the evil eye.

Funny, this was supposed to be a poem about a chimney
sweeper and it became a story about what one can find if one
looks down the chimney. Like those children in a Dickens
novel, used by evil, greedy men to sweep chimneys, who fall
down the dark, narrow tunnel only to come back years later
in white suits, rich, happy, accompanied by the sister they
lost at birth.

j a s m i n h u r s t 92

9 3 cut off places

j a s m i n h u r s t 94



j a s m i n h u r s t 96



n i a l l c a m p b e l l 98

a nightmare as zhivago tale

The hundred miles of scatter weed, Perhaps there simply was no tale
and a thinnest wood partition wall to return back to tell.
kept us from the uprising; No birds, three parish over, with human faces;
our warm bed from the bed of snow. no wolves with fingered hands
that had been taught our sign for beg,
Nights spent where Puskin was retold for prayer, that might shiver in the cold.
as another version of our meeting—
given new names, a higher caste, No stricken towns—just village after village,
a devotion loud as valley rivers. each with a slightly altered meal come evening.
On and on; the word, its doggerel report.
Then I go to survey how hidden One time I almost fell on something worth
our house is from the nearest road: giving this realm or road or route a name.
the thin smoke; a path a tinker’s cart but didn’t.
might think to find a coin if followed—       Eventually I stopped with a local girl,
inclined by the rumour of what she offered.
but it’s hid well. Though by the time
I find the foot road back, the house
is dark, the war done, as I knock
at our own door, it opens in.

9 9 cut off places

the apple reunion night

I grew suspicious when it didn’t rot, How difficult it is returning
still red as the day it was given, possessed once more and again to this old well,
with that enduring slap when caught, just right. all water-skin and sopped moss,
the bowl dissolving from its name
Secretly though, I began to weight it and use—pulls up the thick silt
sure that if it was wax the few lost grams of childhood, and the time when,
of seeds and stones, would tell in the palm. and the place where, and long what if ’s.
Drunk from, passed round the barroom table.
But they didn’t. And I could never risk a bite Wearied, the sun drags down the day.
so threading a thin wick into the flesh I’ve nothing but grit on my tongue.
like its own white worm, I flared a match—

only I didn’t, and I won’t. I’ll spark
no light. I’ll take the darkness, and the doubt.

n i a l l c a m p b e l l 100

autumn, isle of eriskay glasgow, nocturne

Down road, there’s a light in the window The last to make the last circuits of the day,
of the abandoned house— these buses are always no more than empty.

as if someone were trawling through Old tickets from previous journeys, tossed,
its inventory of old letters lay scrunched up in their failing origami.

and steel spoons, the tin box While talk’s as well passed over for a book
of unpaired earrings and cufflinks; or without a book a quick thought on travelling:

the things you can imagine being left how homewards, windows dark, we know the length
and then the things you just imagine: but not the landscape of the journey; how hours

the marks each passed moon go wandering by in road sign, road sign, road sign,
didn’t leave in the floorboard dust; set down along the route like ellipses.

upstairs, the ceramic bath, bored out, Counted up, how many days of a lifespan
mimicking an upturned bell are spent sat between reflections of ourselves,

even in its songlessness. folding the tickets into our breast-pocket:
Midsummer, and every hour their withered petal, their tattered swan or wren?

seems to slip off in practicing
the attitude of kindness, but not the act.

If only a lover were here, or that I
had been the one to set that light,

open the long-shut door, and let those things
mean something to an evening again,

lent this scent of rust to the downwind.