The night

Nice kind of night feeling,  by pixel

The night


The night, its feelers twitching in the distance

the night locked into a box swallowed by the night in the dresser in the nook

while my eyes and especially that space between my eyes and nostrils stretches out like a two-story gutter

startled and unnerved, I’m suddenly aware—there’s a tubular cocoon, spun from eye to eye, through which I see only the night, fractured and phantasmagoric

thanks to a force from who knows where the space of my dream has been split by a wall

on this side sleep is not possible and on the other it’s perfectly possible but nevertheless thoroughly impossible

the wall, in fact, is not a wall but a living force that writhes and throbs and this wall is me

with an inconceivable transparency that allows me to see the night’s other side

and places you might sleep in an overcoat of aches and interminable sighs and grief-belching terrors which home in on your bones

the other side of night is a night without night, without earth, without shelter, without rooms, without furniture, unpeopled

there is absolutely nothing on the other side of night

it’s a world utterly without world, and to possess it, you must never arrive there

—it’s the dock at the very side of your body

and, at the same time, it’s inconceivably remote.

Excerpt from The night, by Jaime Saenz, translated from the Spanish by Forrest Gander and Kent Johnson


~ by Mariela De Marchi Moyano on April 27, 2009.

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