In this steaming aisle of the dead
I am weeping
to learn the names of those streets
my feet have worn thin with running
and why they will never serve me
nor ever lead me home.
"Don't touch it!" she cries
I straighten myself
in confusion
a drunken woman is running away
down the West Side street
my lover's voice moves
a shadowy clearing.

Tenses are a way of ordering the chaos around time.

What I hide by my language, my body utters.

Language problems are often at the bottom of most rationalistic “objectivity”. One must be conscious of the changes in language, before one attempts to discover the form of an o next or fact.

Consider incompleteness as a verb.

∆ Anne Carson, Plainwater: Essays and Poetry

Through the reader’s act of choosing what a hypertext is and will become, hypertext becomes “embodied” by what are otherwise invisible choices in reading (Joyce 235).

"Dry petals of dead flowers have secret cures in them -- anything under the sun, once touched by life / sun / is imbued with power over death."

– Jonas Mekas, Out-Takes from the Life of a Happy Man (2012)

El archivo "es el límite-frontera del tiempo que rodea nuestra presencia, que sobresale por encima de ella y que señala su otredad: es lo que fuera de nosotros, nos delimita.”

As a refugee, she leaves the familiar and safe homeground to venture into unknown and possibly dangerous terrain.

This is her home
this thin edge of
barbwire.