The gaze [never] always at rest. The treatise thought to write you, a language to cross the
uncanny, cross to that lack of home so specifically on the battle ground, the prairie sign, the
barbed wire assertion, that highway erasure.

Or a provisional absence: Rob/Bob/Robert/Raymond/Rita/…. writing is an infinity sign
translated in different lights.

Fuck your question of trace. You’re. Disappeared into art.

The language constructed him as.

Painfully absent. And so, writing a tribute in which he does not appear. Like in interviews, when
he would turn the question back on the interviewer’s own writing, their projects.

One page more to add to the ellipses that is writing. Invisibility is what you wanted.

Now, though, I know how writing and desire fails others. I think you knew too, even as you leaned into the kiss.

I have never been to Greece and never will. I will write letters from there though.

(She had me at ‘gunny sacks’ by the way.)

I imagine him phoning me now: a brief exchange on the weather though really it is about
writing, how family is doing / say hi to Dawne though it is really about writing, and then talk of
what you are writing and you say not much.

That night you claimed I was your son to try and set me up with a woman you thought might
like me.

An homage. A hand-held mirror.