Epilogue

If the body is primal, if the body is performed,

if the body is a city made of matches,

something the self burns as it retreats,

if death is a victory, if death is a cascade,

if death is the moment when the pianist rises

from the piano and the piano plays on,

if you are a theater, if you are the wandering

troupe, if you have checked, lost traveler,

into the softest of hotels, if you already existed,

in endless repetitions, like an echo which,

biopsied, grows to completion, like the flames

on a candelabra, not just born from a single

match, but wavering in the tip before it’s

struck, the whole hive singularized, a queen

subject to her ovaries, if the same horses

grazing in me are grazing in you, if the body

is a field written in hoofprints, the whole

ghostly herd passing through, then I’ll meet you

where the generations end, where the last gene

evaporates, my invisible, my twin...And

Fortinbras enters, followed closely by the wind.