I am empty at times, for very long moments.
I am of unknown identity.
Fear rises at first, and then, thanks to a fortunate event, it passes.
And then it stays fixed.
— Marguerite Duras
We are empty at times, for very long moments.
We have been empty for a long time. For a short time.
Of unknown identity. Of known condition. Passive by nature.
Fear rises at first, and then, thanks to an ill-fated event, it passes.
It does not pass.
The breathlessness of August, and skin gone slack, stretched, sticky with damp and salt.
It does not pass.
Home does not pass from work, nor work from home, from the street, from summer. From the factory, from sleep
it does not pass.
And then it stays fixed.
And then last year’s winter stays fixed until the tenth of August and the fourth of September
fixed since autumn,
since November, since January, since the plane
and then it stays fixed
752, issued from the sky on the eighth of January 2020
We are empty, emptier, heavier
Fear does not rise.
Empty of fear, it is not afraid.
Our ears, empty, heavy and bitter.
It does not pass
A middle-aged man passes through the alley,
the sound, empty, heavy, pours from the fourth-floor roof onto the stones, white
We are hungry, we, my daughter, my wife, we are hungry, we, I
Empty, filled with sound
Our ears, empty, heavy, fuller still with June, with May
The middle-aged man passes through the alley
The sound, empty and hungry,
does not pass the walls, the ceiling, the stairs or the windows.
Not far now from empty, from 52.
