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 Jul 2020
Dante Rocío
A proof of truthful reading.
That it’s still of me and that I live:
Left out of and in crying,
Its [story’s] departure by pain of death trespassing.
Justly, so.

Every ending sentence of a subchapter
was here a melancholy more punctuating
Than all the statuses of things
Coming and leaving, explaining better
Than silence.

Lace in eyes/meshes of the numbers,
In God’s notebook.
Miracles of joy, of enigmas from Poetry
Poured had been into the study
In navy blue of mathematics.

The beige of rain of each dot
At the end of each subchapter.

Now I know what the blank pages are for:
Literature is a person,
At their death you don’t leave them
without a word, a touch.
You leave, at least, an epitaph,
with beloving or not.
For at one time you both decided
to bear with each other as one.
You let each letter have and bear
its part in your mind’s eye.

Every time you read:
“My memory lasts 80 minutes.”

Thank you
Of Yōko Ogawa’s “The Professor’s Beloved Equation”.
I couldn’t let go of all that love in mathematics,
That devotion for the child.
The legacy.
Apprehension in realisation.

We just take it all from God’s notebook.
Thank you Yōko.
Thank you to that bookseller of Toruń
who recommended it to my uncle
for my birthday present.
 Jul 2020
Dante Rocío
Arm trembling no longer holding up.
Feverish commotion moved unsatedly. Longing already before their departure from the knowledge of it to come.
Anguish in sorrow of sobbing
and self-quenching.
Two hearts’ Life has been made, disgustingly ripped away
and then at all costs retrieved
through the cold,
and flame of ashes.
A chain memory
gaining its voice,
shaping into separate mind
and place.
I’m in torenness.
‘ve been through a lifetime and act,
never allowed to come back again
to the same (whirl of trepidations
and convulsions).
I tamed yet another fox
and have to deal with the tears
of the ends.
Tear away someone else’s presence
from me
and so shall be no difference.
I’m in hurt as in loss.
Losing a precious to me
foreign presence
will feel even greater
or have I just lost one,
with a piece of myself
The binding isn’t locking away
one’s memory for a story,
it is giving them a person
called “Story”
and stealing their porcelain pieces
with its charm and frazzleness.
That’s why I account Literature
into sacralities
of my astrality
and perfect chosen arts of being.
Their non-verbal is
my most cherished music there is
as in Phronemophilia
or feelings,
a form of incalescence and confession made between a pair of words,
plucking the perfect chord
of comprehension
and Heart’s painfully sweet thrillance
and, between the verses,
speaking the ideal maternal language
not yet known to Mind.
As a Book contains all millions
of little aspects of moments,
tiny traits,
and endings
and middles,
as it throws a wave after wave
of conundrums
of alchemy of emotions,
of all the unnameable things
of acting/being/breathing/affecting…
it is a Person.
One of many supposedly
not ones in Me.
​Sorry, plushie dearies,
it will be the faux-Victorian tale
of volumes and affection
tucked close to my chest
you rest next,
aside me.
Спокоиней ночи,
всё кто живет во мне и не.
Thank you, Bridget Collins, for your book “The Binding”.
You master binder bound me away too.
Couldn’t look at any other book the other day.
Congratulations dearly for tearing out my heart so well.

— The End —