Reading Time: < 1 minute


The truth is in the prologue. Death to the romantic fool,
to the expert in solitary confinement,
I’m the same as the teacher from Colombia,
the rotarian from Philadelphia, the merchant
from Paysandu who save his silver
to come here. We all arrive by different streets,
by unequal languages, at Silence.

Previous Poem
Sonnet Xxvii: Naked You Are As Simple As One Of Your Hands
Next Poem
The Dead Woman