“Everything hangs by a thread.” Of course, he is talking to himself again, feet propped up on a window sill, the breeze fluttering in the room like invisible, soft hands mussing up his hair, caressing his skin. The dark is a cat slipping through the bars & the room, in the half-light of the moon, appears as it has always been—full & empty, orderly & chaotic. Voices of those “pretty young things” still echo in his ears, their faces etched like scars in his eyes. O, the gang had since packed up for Davao, America, Nevermore. But FC 1127 has remained indifferent to the weather & changes, like the sea, & letters, though few & far between, have made for the imaginary network of signs, like cobwebs, that has kept his heart from falling, falling. Nothings snaps in the air that batters this thread thinner than air itself. A happenstance? A miracle? As in Calvino’s invisible cities, this room is held together by postcards & phone calls that come & go, come & go, a giant spider spinning the threads that span the globes & secrets of telltale hearts.
From Quadratic Silences, 1991