He grabbed
the fog with wide
gestures of his arms and
threw it into his notebook, to
hide the sentences he wrote. It was
a game he could not often get. Grass blades?
Too thick. Grasshoppers? Too toilsome. Plant
seeds? You could not know what could have
been born of. Letters over time bring blood.
Tissues, filaments, nets, circuits were
drawn. Throbbing organs. They
had to draw nurture
from somewhere,
they said. He lost
weight and even his mother quit
identifying him. Someone was crying
at his burial. It was more than he expected,
he couldn’t deal with people. A former girlfriend
foraged his studio, some books he never had read,
old editions, and notebooks. Opening them she
knew where he was that other man who
shrunk, up to seize a space
beyond the point.
Translated by Eleonora Matarrese
EN 
MK