Ciclo DXLII

The tremor in the hand now writes of three things: the curve of the Arno that bends the eye back upon itself like the echo in a mountain pass when Florence was only the sound of stone cutters at dawn; the Armenian mountains where the rock remembers the weight of the sky and the sky the weight of the rock, and where every step is a dialogue the body must keep in balance; and this page, this silent canal of ink, where the thought that would escape the flesh is held in black threads, trembling with the same uncertainty as the pulse that draws it. All three are about the act of bearing—what the body, the stone, the line must carry not because they choose to, but because they are shaped by what presses upon them. Portare il peso dell’essere visti.