十一

June 3, 2011

  1. The way the man sits hunched over the thing he is unraveling. A knitter, I’m hoping, or a braider of plastic bracelets. But no, an anticipator of iPod listening.
  2. The rush of emptiedness once you realize the music had stopped three subway stations ago and yet the earbuds are still plugged in—akin to a visual void.
  3. The new mechanism at the crosswalk timing the speed of light.
  4. The Queensboro Plaza platform, from where twice now I’ve seen the ghost in the half-finished building.
  5. The thing he is unraveling so desperately, two white cords promising to mend—or at least reknit—an unraveled heart.
  6. The ghosts in the half-finished building, swirling around sweet, somnolent, silly, dreamy Patri in César Aira’s Ghosts.
  7. The visual void once the gun goes off—yet the body remains to be seen by others.
  8. The speed of light interrupted by the new mechanism that measures the speed of darkness.
  9. The unraveled heart on a fully sleeved arm—impossible to gauge wear and tear.
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