THE INFECTION is larger than sadness; it licks the tortured parietal bones, it penetrates the bedrooms of sweat and laudanum and later it trembles like a cold wing: it is the moisture of people who are dying.

Slowly the impure dove approaches, approaches cups full of shadow

and capillaries of ash spread over remnants of mercury and tears.

The lens reveals mendacity but its light comes from the abyss. In front of scorched corneas hang threads of silence. Later

the disappearances depress the heart.