At the cafe, the waiter takes my order
before I even open my mouth. At a nearby
table, two women are talking, their heads
close together; one of them is weeping
quietly. Are you all right,
her friend says. The other nods.
For a long time I could not tell what
was real and what was a lie: variations.
Once I was afraid of the world and its
long hands, its love of bones. There is
no cure for the oldest of afflictions: burning
in the cold with the desire to be consumed.
In response to Via Negativa: Against certainty.