Try making a man with no soul,
you who can do all things. Not quite all.
Is it you or your end that’s manifest in forms
fixed before you, or in the first sums
the schoolchild learns, likewise unalterable.
The triangle makes its dark refusal
of all you might be, great indefinite. Spared a body
and this staggered mind, you cannot know the joy
our weariness embraces—what made you go without
the saving play of memory. Yes, to forget and invent
is denied you. Though you transcend time
you too cannot change what was. The sad dream
seizing you most of all, still you cannot feel sadness,
only—who knows. Maybe you feel less and less
the rumored maker, more like one who simply sees
himself reflected, unforgiving, in a foreignness…
Bound by such laws. A singular. You cannot make another
of what you are, be less than yourself, disappear.
