Friday, July 30, 2010

175 Borges

Hand red with the edge of sleep


words

like eight hundred years,

a sanatorium, a room

that was not his own.



He was blinded, bandaged

in the bottom of a well,

the slightest coolness

prickled, the promised day

partial to symmetries



his life

a ramshackle old house.











An erasure of page 175 from The Collected Fictions of Jorge Luis Borges, translated by Andrew Hurley

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