At a certain point, I lost you. I came to know it first as a weather, the earliest hour of day breaking on the bedsilk, its low rung of light, a pregnant silence.
Time is the distance between birth and death. Parallel universes appear in real time on your screen. Place is an illusion. For instance, I am in the Palace of Versailles.
Forgive me, I have smuggled them away from my father’s house to this sodden pitch in the middle of my life, their names asleep under my tongue. I have walked
to practice intense study. to research. to seek again. to require confirmation, a proof. to believe. to believe in knowing because it can be said again and again. the proving of a theorem. now the corollary: to have learned
I cannot remember the last meal I shared with my father. Only those long last nights slipping him what ice chips he could still stomach and then swabbing his chapped lips with a wetted pink sponge.
Confusion is the foreigner’s advantage. Natives tamp the nuance in their sounds. Stranger seeking refuge pockets vowels, picks gesture, learns body, gets caught up on the cobble
There must’ve been some incident, something to push both Dickinson and Proust into isolation, the horse thought as a student, but now he thinks time and immortality require one’s full attention.
