I’ll evade inferno, I’ll evade that, I will evade it
We can bear more despair than we credit ourselves for, yet since there’s no limit I’m a surrendered soldier! Stories I populate and postulate and pontificate will obscure the value of lighthearted phrases; despair itself will despair and disappear without hope existing as its mirror (if it does it appears as faintly as moon’s reflection on a fog-ridden sea—memory’s memorized error.) Heavy though my books may be their weight will escape notice. So too will those far and menacing dots overhead, when my back is hunched to the ground, nose not high enough to bristle flower-tops. My choice then is to place the finished full-stop, so my chapters won’t resemble delirious and rambling fevers of alarm, as I too will evade inferno by placing myself in what is inferno to others. I won’t mind somehow that my books will go now, quemando,
lo que me manda al infierno;
que me mande a better one later, because what has my caustic ink done, that their pages are already weathered—
that when fondled by my furious palm’s oils, they fall so readily to their knees?