the world a letter

Fragment


Sharp, sick man,
each day as little
as you can, much more
you must until
fate buries
its palsied self in each
coincidence:
and curb your line
of sight: it is,
though moving still,
a tomb.
Plain?
:what you see
is not what is
but what you were
is how you saw.
See
sharp, to heal yourself
surgically;
cut off
your cutting;
become uncarved,
not yet
what was.