In 1996 I returned to a study
of Cesar Vallejo's *Trilce*. I
don't speak or write Spanish with
the excuse of time. Time is nothing
that invites me close so don't
criticize or disagree. The poem is
Enigmatic notes in the middle of
nowhere. This is a kind
loving that wrenches me out of
language, that reverses me inside a
catalogue of surrealistic prepositions.
That they always correct deprives us
of accurate lessons. I stand by
my note about *Trilce*. It's not
much but that's all there is,
I am inside outside inside.
Transference of the lexicons. Exhausted
admiration not me. But that's all to
continue. Midnight. That
wrenches language out of me.