Again, it was this weird and wandering narrative
with Dante as the furious chariot of Sun
was drawing a new spectacle. Her language moves
the world, it realizes birds and trees
again, again and again. Look at the beloved
hidden in every name, read all the sentences
and complete thoughts. Sometimes I think a fiction
is like a house for the gazing reader's eye
and it moves through the space. You're this story that
there's no exegesis of, I'm trying to find
adequate translations but there aren't any.
Forget dim lamps, above me the whirling stars
and luminaries are weaving a textured love
without the limits of these words nor thought.
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