Webster’s defines “Exposition” as:

The space which I previously inhabited, as fast as I can: Lying like a black stream of cat, allay’d. Yellow between carbonations. Butane roughens up her gentle mouth at each downbeat of the see-saw. All of Lorain is connected by veins of allies deadending in blindness and slips of itch along joints. Slim. Today a cupped sun fritters sloth hours. I have houses behind me in which IO streams cast shadows in iron squint, and some nights they stand at the foot of my bed, crying me to sleep with a people’s fount. I would explain it thus:

I almost miss the recital.