In this region of the new world there exists but one man.
Though those that are born in ships surround him,
and there must be a second, or third, to have seen him,
he remains, alone, by order, sliced white,
bound into skeletons.
One can live as a beggar, he says, while walking a king.
There are risks to the night not mentioned, or noticed.
Seven chambers, by seven chambers. Multiplying.
Mathematics on a page,
(rather than in the mind, or within a machine).
A doctor’s report that is difficult to read
for a reason that is difficult to remember.
A kind of fame possible, only granted
when the one last man is discovered beyond Palermo.
We do not dare to state that we are simple.
The sea seems wider as we view it from the deck.
Or the neck of a river that keeps breeding.
The walk continues, only with music now.
Honoris Causa in Jerusalem,
possible sums of the numbers 8, 1 and 9, given twice.
There are duels, intruders, old ladies.
Houses, full of books, burning down.
There is a shadow so black that it stretches ministers into poodles,
and poets into novelists.
The letters, arranged as poems, attempt to live as Buenos Aires.
They fail with some skill, and are better for the apology.
A soul’s core, walking, writing, a streetwalker in the innocent sense.
A single man, huge in a city, small in the world.
EN 
MK