Cleaving borges


“I’ve reached the point
where tedium is a person,
the incarnate fiction of
my own company”
—Fernando Pessoa,
The Book of Disquietude

I got to the station—past eleven
He’d already signed in—at the hotel
Room 19—was waiting for me
The day—August 25, 1983…

We were dreaming—each other
I was in the—Hotel Las Delicias
I’d got a one-way—ticket for
Adrogué—and Borges

He was dying—not in the hotel
But in a house—on Calle Maipú
That belonged—to our mother
He was dreaming me—or was I?

Who was—dreaming whom?
I thought—I was dreaming him
But I don’t know—maybe he
Was dreaming me—instead

How to find out—if there is
Only one man—dreaming or
Two men—dreaming each

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