Columbus

The muses have given me half-life. I am a new

Radioactive substance, wringing sentence from soul,

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Becoming less with every line. To erase myself

In one go would take more work than necessary,

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I stick to spoonfuls. In the New Yorker, Knausgaard

Talks about the impossibility of a selfless writer;

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He writes decades. I write seconds, watching the clock

Tick down, dividing selves through endless radiation.

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This whisper is not a flood, is not a river, is drawn

Out. A taut mind, circumnavigating itself, looking

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For India in Peru. Would they laugh if they knew

How little work I put into disappearing? Each new

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Book makes me an insect. It is amusing how people

Who felt so small can be this enormous on paper.

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If they make a statue of Kafka it should be the size

Of a tinderbox. If they make one of me it should be of sand.

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[1] & [2]