The metaphor has died.
Nothing looks like anything else.
The most minimal fraction of every atom absorbed in the task of fulfilling its smallest command. To remain in one’s being, every morning, no matter what. The exhausted anatomy of the cypress… The convulsive obstinacy of pines… The innocuous whiteness of ice in the threshold.
The neighbors’ dog’s piss traces a furrow in the snow. Minute. No less
than all the rest of things. No less
than this will carried away, the sure inanity of this attempt.
From Memorial de agravios (1997)
Translation by Nicolás Suescún