Poetics

xxxiii

if I had left my body somewhere high up a mountain or even in the middle of a street waiting for you, god’s catastrophes would come and go and you would still not be there. in the way everything finds the best form limbs wings gills with time and sitting low in corners waiting to pounce, taking up the colour of its cloth, and you would still not be there. waiting is forged in me then so that I no longer get surprised or disappointed. when the time comes for leaving it will be easy and quick like when we used to joke about the anatomy of frogs but you were more interested in the frogs mating and using their hind legs to smother competition to death. although the two now might be drawn out to mean the same thing – the nothingness of those days. what will be easier still will be finding a street you cross every day and you will still not be there. this is how it is, moving in this place knowing anything true remains in a room back at home. what are the forms of these bodies we present each other? long before we have touched already the wave is breaking and you are leaving. going back to the nothingness that is itself separate but not unlike the one we know well. but one can never really hide the awkward walk of those who have torsos longer than lower limbs, the same way I cannot erase how that bathroom sink was a little too high for me and seeing myself in the mirror made me think of children in a museum and the management of ruin.

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