Was wir nicht denken können, das können wir nicht denken; wir können also auch nicht sagen was wir nicht denken können —Wittgenstein A bewilderment, his wilting sense of betrayal, a wilderness— he composed the history of his own privacy. If you can’t imagine it you can’t think about it; you can’t talk about what you…
In the new film, the subtitles make the picture blurry, but it is an old film. What is the same in any part of the world? A field. Trees at its edges. The figure approaching us. Inside, the plaster falls from the ceiling nightly. What is the other source of sound? The instrument was going…
In the shower linoleum then floorboards then earth in which the depths please send me away but see she cannot leave the house see what has been done is thorough like something a cloth has been rinsed in or used for tied across the eyes I have taken precautions leave no address…
Shadow of a bubble. Word, my world. One: it issues from a shadow’s mouth, shadow one carries where one goes. One goes alone and two go alone. Three: without the sun, there would be no picnic. No picnic, no shadow of a bubble. No word, no world. One: it issues from a shadow’s mouth, shadow…
Everyone was happier. But where did the sadness go? People wanted to know. They didn’t want it collecting in their elbows or knees then popping up later. The girl who thought of the ponies made a lot of money. Now a month’s supply of pills came in a hard blue case with a handle. You…
The chair. The ice. The day in December when the chair was useful. Its broken seat. That, too, was what I offered up to you, but to what use. The light filled the curtains, the curtains conducted it into the room where they were talking, one standing near the chair, one smoking by the door….
That stuffed pine marten in the hotel corridor Ended up on all fours in nineteen-thirteen And now is making it across No Man’s Land where A patrol of gamekeepers keeps missing him.
It is hard to remember about the hardening man he is alive, hard not to hear in the shrill nonsense he speaks when he attempts to speak the chirping of a thrush, any ordinary bird hard to see (but look) beneath his sagging mask a face, once flesh, now lost, a planet— barren and featureless…
Once the phone, called the “telephone,” was a voice one heard by pressing what looked like a stethoscope to one’s ear, answering by shouting at a device on the wall. This was before talking on the phone was invented—a more intimate exchange using a receiver that allowed one to speak to the voice while holding…
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