About

 

The black dogs are losing my scent; I hear one of them’s become a guide dog for the blind man down the street. I’ve started dreaming at night. In the old story (the only one he ever wrote) the idealist worked in the mortuary, prettifying corpses with chemicals. He worked with nervous attention to detail and afterwards sank into torpid reverie: a eunuch daydreamer on a stingy island. But this is real life, the wind is blowing the dust off my desk, and the island is budding with new words and images. I’ll drink from a different cup; I’ll run through any season’s weather.