We are at a party that doesn’t love us—the line is Transtromer’s. Life after life we say it. We whisper it in the Prado or in the hills above Naples where the oracle knew forsakenness. We’re at a party. Outside, Basho’s broken willow. The Cumaean Sibyl puts her tongue to the oak leaves. Numerals of loneliness scatter in the grass.
Planet of the Blind 