Maybe Borges can teach me how to compose
sonnets in a fluid rhetoric, how to tame
the immense gulf. I'm wandering the debris
of abandoned social networks, the awful ruins
of circular libraries. In a labyrinthine mess
of philosophical systems there is a mirror
like the surface of the water at the bottom of
a well. These secret languages, fictive artifacts,
nonsense symbols and difficult koans populate
a marvelous universe that seems a dream. I see
the stars as gems, the grass as many dancers
stretching their legs. The tropes of a new sect,
these literary forgeries, a hundred and one
nights obscured myself from the true word.
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