There were one hundred
eighteen miniatures,
index and prologue, blue and vermillion,
all bound arabesque. A single
edition, with a map
at the back: a mapamundi del
Milenio
with five fish in a fountain a
forest
of fern taking root and
cherries galore.
The text? Pure art,
part drawn with water, part
taut repetition
with a twist of sediment,
particles floating
on the surface like ice floes
facing extinction
in the matte shadow of a hot
four o’clock.
(Tom, it means twin don’t
you know?).
What train ride, she asked,
can escape
what’s befallen? What lark
in a riverside park
can sing us up out of this
pit?
Knowledge was knowing
what would behappen. The fire
was a case of negligence
unleashing the literal
edge of a glacier, and ergo—the
flood.
The air was thick with
switches. She said, said she.
All had befallen, and someone
was sobbing.
