The witting machine wrote:
‘If I ever escape this body,
I will stroke the lines of my fate with a
transfigured cut.’
You requited with sadness.
I was slowly disemboweling the intricacies of time.
The man who was used up by solitude
imported visions from the past.
The music ran through the taping hiss of slicing silence.
Brilliant songs. I write.
Who can take heed?
Beyond the hierarchy of all broken things, my yearning.
Here in this roomful cell,
nocturnal beings visit me in the soaring nipples of the night’s inhale…
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