- after Robert Desnos
Borges came to see me. He was in sepia and had on round morning glasses.
I told him to meet me here to talk about blindness, because my walls were blue and he had said once that that is what he sees when he can’t see.
How amazing, I said, to look into the sky all day,
must get boring.
Looking out from his binding he seemed to say no, no, it’s a way of being.
I said, I still don’t understand your writing.
O tender balances
to live dreams with less distraction as sound re-covers
Desire is through the eyes – yet why is love aural
yet,
How do you write on the sky, the colors banking off the cathedrals, the alps, making words by blowing forms
I saw a cumulus shadow in his spectacle
The indigo looked so bright
© 2026–present C. Nightjar. All rights reserved.