The Garden of Forking Paths

"Beneath English trees I meditated on that lost maze: I imagined it inviolate and perfect at the secret crest of a mountain; I imagined it erased by rice fields or beneath the water; I imagined it infinite, no longer composed of octagonal kiosks and returning paths, but of rivers and provinces and kingdoms... I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future, and in some way involve the stars. Absorbed in these illusory images, I forgot my destiny of one pursued. I felt myself to be, for an unknown period of time, an abstract perceiver of the world."
-Jorge Luis Borges, "The Garden of Forking Paths"

Labyrinth.

Ariadne, tyrant-loved poet,
a man you never knew has melted
in the sun.

An obscure mind has denied
the existence of memory.

Someone looked at paintings for hours.

I wrote myself
out.

I peeled the pencil lines right off the page,
like thread.