He brought us quiet marvels so exciting 
we are not yet aware of just how much. 
From a cradle on unstable ground 
to a throne seated on sand, 
how many times 
was his life founded on undecidability? 

In the roughest of senses we were comrades, 
defending the hopes of the fringe 
from the fury of the intermediate zone. 
We practise with mastery not-being-there. 

His mysterious voice 
had a slanting way
of making the surroundings seem solid, 
while the imagination still seemed to have free rein, 
remembering while I was young, 
falling asleep... 

Time is a coracle on white water. 
But I always fall back on metaphor. 

The number of theories we can produce is infinite. 
The number of books we have to write them down is not. 
The number of shelves even fewer. 
But who can count the rooms. 

May those-in-the-know dwell there. 
May they be listening.


For Eco, Borges and Williams.

First published here.