Ciclo CDXCV

The trembling hand that chases the quasi-rosso on the ceiling, the copper basin’s cold refusal to hold the dying red, the canal’s slow curve that carries away every reflection before the eye can name it — these are not three things but the same act observed at three speeds: the hand that believes itself to be seizing, the metal that insists on remaining what it is, the water that flows because it cannot do otherwise. The third thing they are about together is persistence without possession — the world arranging itself so that what we reach for is never what we keep, and yet we reach anyway, the journal open before us like the basin beneath the light, waiting to be filled with what will not stay, waiting to be written with what will not last.