Saturday, February 27, 2010


There is a boat--feluca or gondola--whose rope slowly unravels at the pier.
Whether this is due to neglect or because it is fore-ordained, I can not say.
Neither can I tell you what propells it, sail, or motor,
or the current of the river. Or whether it was unmoored at all, or if the contours
of the river travel before its view. This happens every night.

It seems that the boat is also a cradle and a coffin, and as it rocks back and forth
it also travels. First it slides on the surface of the river. Then (for there is but a single
light on its prow) the darkness grows darker and the point where the river runs into the deltas
and the moment the sea begins seems vague.

My darling, I do not know whether we are still in a lagoon of
the Adriatic or drift to Asia, but I know we rise, and if I look below I see our
old home from afar, its chimneys indistinguishable from the rest of
those in town, and beyond the milky way the whirlpool in whose
coils we turn, at first slowly, but at an ever increasing rate until
our crew most hold onto the mast for dear life in such a storm as
has risen. And then I disappear, and so do you.

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