He is alone. And from the moment he begins to breathe,

he is nowhere. Plural death, born

in the jaws of the singular,

and the word that would build a wall

from the innermost stone

of life.

For each thing that he speaks of

he is not—

and in spite of himself

he says I, as if he, too, would begin

to live in all the others

who are not. For the city is monstrous,

and its mouth suffers

no issue

that does not devour the word

of oneself.

Therefore, there are the many,

and all these many lives

shaped into the stones

of a wall,

and he who would begin to breathe

will learn there is nowhere to go

but here.

Therefore, he begins again,

as if it were the last time

he would breathe.

For there is no more time. And it is the end of time

that begins.