The sun allows you to see only what the sun
upon: the surface. What we wanted was what was elsewhere: cause.
Or some books say that’s what we once wanted. Prophets of
never, of course, agreed about cause, the uncaused cause: or they
terribly did. Asleep, I struggle to stay inside sleep, unravaged by
piercing dreams—craving, wish, desire to remain inside, if briefly,
obliteration. I cleave to the voice of Poppea’s nurse:
Not frightening, the word
as Oralia Domínguez, hauntingly clinging to the sound, in 1964 sings it.