This obstacle, for instance: as though, just healed
from a sickness, you awoke to find a stone under
your head, far from your destination, the point that
flashes then goes off like the eye of a nocturnal
animal wary of the hunter; under a monument, in a
place, a public square with its own hooded crowd,
where you appear, on the verge of embracing
whatever is passing, then you resume your way.

This tomorrow, for instance, that sways like a sword
over the guest’s head, as he hurries past the
open gates of hell, carrying on his back an ancient
hand-press, a raving idol, a woman with a frozen
waterfall between her legs that will not flow unless
whipped by the devil himself.

Because you either never answered the letter, or
you never went anywhere. But you arrived at the place.