Woven together,
today they said I was all right,
tomorrow, they said, just a stitch:
a thread holding me together,
as you call me and kill me;
you are a kind person
in an unkind way.
The needle's blade is piercing,
somewhat like your words,
the pigeons and rats of another time,
making noises like words that I know but do not exist,
a horrible sound, and a gnawing and a pecking,
like yesterday's birth
and tomorrow's end.
So no more, you seem the same,
but we both have changed,
and yet you say the same things.
The day is done.
The forces that destroy are here at the door,
the salvation of tomorrow is a day away:
too late for me.
You cannot hold me to the bargain (or should I say bargains?) of another year;
today has no leader and there is no tear
for the end of things that come so near,
over and over and over again.
The day is done. Maya has no residence over my eyes, and so
I say goodbye to you and all that you imbue
this splotch of red with. With yesterday, today and tomorrow:
not a real thing, these moments that are not real,
so I must arise now
and say
goodbye.
— Gabriel Fenteany, September 26, 1993 & January 2, 2014
