Out of solitude, he begins again—

as if it were the last time

that he would breathe,

and therefore it is now

that he breathes for the first time

beyond the grasp

of the singular.

He is alive, and therefore he is nothing

but what drowns in the fathomless hole

of his eye,

and what he sees

is all that he is not: a city

of the undeciphered

event,

and therefore a language of stones,

since he knows that for the whole of life

a stone

will give way to another stone

to make a wall

and that all these stones

will form the monstrous sum

of particulars.