Vila-Matas writes, “in the same imperceptible
manner in which it began, the illness
one day takes its leave.” Thus my illness,
forty days after Susan dies, defects
just as a desert blooms in rain.
Now hypographia besieges me, words spill,
unwilling to sulk inside. This Susan journal
siphons black ink from the red pen.
Jünger says, “people with dilated pupils
arouse disgust.” From puberty to middle age
my pupils shone, “the low but brutal
murmur of ancient battle,” “old harpoons
no doubt loaded with a thousand stones.”
To escape orbit, go back, escape again.
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