Everything–even Borges's pen.
Only in the sharpened act of reading writing lives.
I won't guess why in this infinite moment I'm so perplexed
By these words that I've barely eaten.
The library at the center of time, its absurd
Shelves of perpetual books resolved
Into polyglot palettes of ink and spine. Into a book
Of sand strokes his pen–undecoded.
The metaphysical pen. Its eyes have been smudged out,
And of the blinded hand whose meticulous
Pleasure was to write, nothing remains
But some bones and the shifting labyrinth
Of a fearful sphere. Can words that drift and mutate
Imagine this name: Jorge Luis Borges?