Cahiers du Doute

.

assuming exile

assuming the world

.

One makes a mark. Turn the page, makes another mark.
It is the same, and yet another book. Two lines make a
composition. One line crosses the other to form an X.
Mark. Deletion.
Or, a sign designating "October."

Scraps of fog in the trees & steeples hung with it --
the moment doesn't lift, no
mere erasure. It--

*

Scraps of fog in trees,
on steeples. Hung, the moment
doesn't lift. No ease in that.

*

Perhaps someting was said.
Summation. That there was.
That there is, completion.
I doubt it. I doubt that


21.X.06

"a codex of gestures"
-- Walter Benjamin on Kafka

-- it all depending on the light.

-- a question of... constancy?

*

On the back porch, morning cigarette. Fall colors, blue sky, a crow passing through it, its wings glowing brown before folding into a black, settled, shape. Sounds of hammering from a house under repair, and children's voices from farther off. I thought of something, and then thought about the notebook in my pocket, and I thought about the cold. The phrase "seize the day" entered my head, apparently at random. It may have proceeded from the other thought, the phrase I had thought to write, the phrase that had escaped me.