---

17 The following is a found fragment addressed to the great poet, dated two years after the death of the great poet:

It was my cunt, too-not the velvet one, of course, but the center one with the hanged man attached to it. That same summer, my sister and I turned detective and held the spy glass over the ants and discovered they were busy planning hoaxes. Everything I do, I do because I know I am dying. My most favorites of things are optical illusions. We don't become senile or "lose our minds," it's just that as we get older, we have more to think of in less time-we must think of more in a compressed amount of time. I think I know now what you've tried to teach me, that poetry is an instant, an instant in which transcendence is achieved, where a miracle occurs and all of one's knowledge, experience, memories etc. are obliterated into awe. Is anything I say real? And by real, I mean sincere-or is everything an attempt to have love? I know now why the line breaks: it is because something dies, and elsewhere, is born again

 

continue with The Body >>