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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