Lying here in the darkness, I let the days
obliterate me— I let the rooms
empty themselves of their contents
a little more each day and fill my hands
with the perfume from peeled oranges,
with the residues of salt. The great harp
that twanged in the summer gardens
has long ceased vibrating. Rain fills
the cisterns to the brim. All that has cause
to happen is happening. It is impossible
to turn back the clocks, to give the dead
bird its blasted wing. Why not start
anywhere and make that the beginning.
Why not keep going through the numbered
pages. Why not address that letter
to eternity; why not come back
and pick up where you left off
the last time you were here.
~ after Borges
In response to Via Negativa: Night music.