They worked me hard. I forgot how to sleep. One day I left them to their disorder and anger. Soon after, I left a woman with a belly like a ripening pear. She said I made her curse the life inside her. I walked as far as I could and lay down with mutts. Everything I’d been learning had gone from me. I’d forgotten how to laugh and cry. I cursed myself to this rented hut at the end of the coast. Here I end with nothing every 3 am, my grand quest to grow up dragged out on the floor before me like a sick animal. Nothing comes to me. I bring nothing to nothing.
Then maybe it starts from nothing. Maybe the first things that will whisper to me, from so far away, will be the thistles half uprooted by the offshore winds; and the winds themselves, always plunging homeward through new strange places.
What will they whisper? These nights are like dreams in which some task is demanded of me that I fail to understand. Nothing to do but stay still among the dusty things in this room, reflected like me by the black indifferent window; and stubbornly hold night to my heart until dawn chooses to break through from where I am not - and speak.
To stay here until dawn touches my window and tells me: I swallow the dark so you can praise. Walk out into a completed task.
It will say - is saying: The stars that eat your body now will one day be poured into you like pure energy.
