The Translator Is The Original Coast

"What I don't know, I agree with," Antonio Porchia didn't get with. If it's as dirty as a secret, who cares who
knows. That word has its own designs, anyway.

What he was translating that afternoon was obscure as a sleepwalker eating cereal
and as slow. Neurons
nested around a dimple, in the air, of it, both neither and both--then the echo that
was audible
as the curvilinear, three bones, cartilage, Argentina, the purposeful, grandmotherly
through
grotesquely patrician and parochial
freedom that spelled it, held it, almost without demagogues or ropes.

Flat, cow-rough thumbs. Mud pliable putty. On the wheel, Milky-Way inflected, spinning.
And then synchonized
with the technology
withheld from him, this. A two part aphorism on the nose.

To travel. To reflect from every angle, every unsolicited inch it impregates, without a pose.
In a flourish
counteradvance, like feathers outfalling a camera raised to chop them into one, as the old man
sheathes
the skin he doesn't even own. Even as slowness speeds up considerably constant cheap deaths
around it
pushes the further destination point closer, to roam. You, younger one, you lady whose age is
as so, immediate as anyone
appearing in the second person--whose apparition is nice, I have kneaded it, and is personal.
Come home.