Although his constitution is rough and stubborn as a peasant’s, he has an angel’s head | and when he smiles in a certain way, no one can say whether he is one of those who were left behind in heaven or one who fell | (It seems possible that he himself is pondering | that very question)

Cataracts of acts, a constant | rush of them (even sleeping) | A singular point you come to always | A frantic and vulnerable | isle

Lost in an aural maze, he wanders between fleeces and cirrus, a molten blur of incidents | accidents | coincidence [the same blue car, the moon at the full on both occasions], the fleeting deer of rain through the back streets of the | boring northern town where any thrills too quickly give out to | clinging mother plough earth and the dull provincial Caesar of the flatness of the plain ruling forever, minor | politician | functionary

He dreams of running away from school, of hitching on trucks with eighteen wheels | to the great city with its uneasy jigsaw of senates, malls, clubs and ghettos | decay and ostentation | the progeny of fatuous corporate drones dashing round the garden in golden tutus and ivory butterfly wings | the antiseptic suburbs of loners with firearms

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