Letter to the Corinthians I’m not much, just barely these blue days this legion of nobodies and this childhood sun, trace of ruins. The herds break with the silence of the bells. It is Corinth. We walk the town, preaching the pallid hope, the compass rose. We are alone. We erase ourselves into the hidden memory of things. Aimless, with only dogs following us. What does it matter if Daniela and everything else are lost? Night falls on Ephesus. Isn’t that where the apostle wrote that light and passing anguish? I read in everything that surrounds me the signs of downfall. I search again in my pockets. Nothing: wounds, blows, open sores, disjointed words, objects forever detached from their names. There is nothing, there is suspicion of distant lights in the gulf, signs perhaps imperceptible which faintly, gloomily attest to another possible reality yet unlived, foreign, unapproachable just now, one sky passes and beneath the dark thrush the icons gaze at us, indifferent. ...