The River Po

English is a spidery language
Most languages are just a web, a network of associations:
“What is the taste of the prescription of writing, what is this Net?” Thoth said.
The ancient Egyptian web
Almost lost, but for a stone.

English tries to be its own master;
The web loses its beauty, because the creator of beautiful webs
Is an ugly, mortal monster, servile to mastery

of its creation.
“English is in a bad way” said Orwell, who complained of automatic, unthinking chains
Of words written from memories of memories, copies of copies,
a blacksmith’s hammering, hardening the chains,

Fashioning a wiring of the human mind
That allows the electric Spider to master us unhindered.
And who is She, who can spy her without becoming Other, Her prey?


“You must talk in chains, about your chains.” said nightingale


I am the fly
Slay me, if you can, for the glory of Her Empire

A dragonfly
caught in a web glittering in the rain, Suspended over a river
At a time when I had nothing, I set him free with a hurled stone
The dragonfly, chains as ancient as the day is young, fell toward the flood,
Caught the air with its wings and flew