Grappled flesh
of the fully other and one.
And each thing here, as if it were the last thing
to be said: the sound of a word
married to death, and the life
that is this force in me
to disappear.
Shutters closed. The dust
of a former self, emptying the space
I do not fill. This light
that grows in the corner of the room
has moved.
Night repeats. A voice that speaks to me
only of smallest things.
Not even things - but their names.
And where no names are -
of stones. The clatter of goats
climbing through the villages
of noon. A scarab
devoured in the sphere
of its own dung. And the violet swarm
of butterflies beyond.
In the impossibility of words,
in the unspoken word
that asphyxiates,
I find myself.
Paul Auster
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